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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27161855">Turned - Part I : Queen and Country</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintscully/pseuds/saintscully'>saintscully</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Turned [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homeland, Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Divergence - His Last Vow, Case Fic, Emotional Manipulation, Homeland fusion, Homophobia - internalized and otherwise, Infidelity, I’m so sick of Moriarty, Johnlock endgame (by the end of the series), M/M, MI6, Mention of war time torture/abuse, No Moriarty in this story, No TAB, PTSD, Podfic Welcome, Sherlock/OC (graphic and lengthy), Spy Sherlock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:16:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>75,906</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27161855</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintscully/pseuds/saintscully</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>‘Turncoat: a person who deserts one party or cause in order to join an opposing one.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>⇆</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Moriarty’s message never gets broadcasted. The airplane taking Sherlock away never returns.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As rumors begin to swirl about a British POW found alive in Gaza ten months later, Mycroft shows up at John’s surgery with some good news: Sherlock is alive, and he’s coming back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>⇆</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In this story, inspired by ‘<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homeland_(TV_series)">Homeland</a>’ and ‘<a href="https://www.hulu.com/series/prisoners-of-war-0283a8f7-8253-4410-a1d4-e588abccc3f3">Prisoners of War</a>’, John and Sherlock are left with no choice but to re-examine everything about their relationship since Sherlock’s fall.</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/OC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Turned [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982621</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>470</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>199</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Let’s get the important stuff out of the way first:</p><p>Yes, this is a Sherlock/OC story (with a teeny-tiny John/OC moment) but the endgame <b>of the series (e.g by the end of Part II)</b> <em><strong>is</strong></em> Johnlock. Yes, the Sherlock/OC thing is explicit and somewhat graphic.</p><p>Yes, this story is based on TV shows ‘Homeland’ and ‘Prisoners of War’ but you don't have to be familiar with them to understand this story. It’s even better if you’re not - it’ll make it easier for me to surprise you ;)</p><p>Bonus: No Eurus endgame.</p><p>Please heed the many, many tags. <span class="u">Reach out to me on tumblr</span> if you have any questions or worries. Also, please note that I'm not British and never served in the British Army.</p><p><strong>English as a second language: </strong>While this story was betad, English isn’t my first language and I sometimes make edits post-beta. You shouldn’t find any glaring mistakes but if you do I hope that doesn’t prevent you from enjoying it.</p><p><strong> Thank you to my dear betas:</strong> <a href="https://imagesymboltext.tumblr.com/">imagesymboltext</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebekahVeeWatson/pseuds/RebekahVeeWatson">VeeRebekah</a>, and to <a href="https://simplyclockwork.tumblr.com">simplyclockwork</a> (for army commentary and live tweeting her responses to this fic).</p><p><strong>Come say hi:</strong> I am <a href="https://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com">therealsaintscully on tumblr</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/saintscully2">saintscully2</a> on Twitter.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>January 1st, 2015</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>North Hill Private Airport, London</em>
</p><p>“<em>Shit,</em>” John murmurs, the word barely audible even to his own ears.</p><p>He blinks once, twice, as if waking from a lucid dream—or just a very realistic nightmare. Turning his eyes up at the sky again, the cloudless spectre blinding him, he searches for the aeroplane.</p><p>It’s gone.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>Sherlock said goodbye again, just like last time, and John was useless again, and never managed to find the right words. Though what those words would have been, he hasn’t the slightest idea.</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock is a girl’s name.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Christ, did he really say that? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>What did I say back?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>“John?” Mary’s voice reaches him, causing his hairs to rise. He turns to find her standing by the car, next to the driver; one of Mycroft’s more reliable minions. Her big red coat covers her round belly, safekeeping the child—his child, his <em>daughter</em>—growing inside her. His eyes close involuntarily as he shakes his head, turning to look away again.</p><p>
  <em>Shit. What... now? </em>
</p><p>“John?”</p><p>“Coming,” he says as he crosses the short distance with a few steps, his gait tight and angry.</p><p>“Where to from here, Mr. and Mrs. Watson?” the driver asks politely.</p><p><em>Where indeed, </em>he snorts bitterly.</p><p>“Acton,” Mary starts, “340-”</p><p>“Mothercare on Oxford Street.” John interrupts her.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Or some other baby store, I don’t care which.”</p><p>“What, now?” Mary guffaws as she climbs into the back seat, buckling up.</p><p>“Yes, now,” he says gruffly, petulantly, as the driver takes off, “problem?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“What were we thinking, waiting so long to do this?” he grumbles loudly, overwhelmed by the infinite selection of teething toys.</p><p>“What’s wrong with you?” she asks. “You sound like—”</p><p>“Like what?” He turns to face her, returning her challenging glare. “Like <em>what</em>, Mary? I’m fine. He’s gone. You know what? <em>It’s about bloody time</em>.”</p><p>“John—” Mary says, stealing an embarrassed glance at the sales assistant. The other woman’s smile drops comically fast.</p><p>“He leaves. He always leaves. That’s what he <em>does</em>. And we have a baby on the way but no crib or blankets or, erm—” he stutters, “whatever this thing is!”</p><p>The sales assistant scuttles away with a small whimper.</p><p>“Isn’t this what you wanted, hmm?” He lowers his voice in frustration and moves close enough to feel her breath. “Mary and John, <em>parental bliss</em>? Well here it is,” he gestures sharply to the general direction of the toy section, “you win. Let’s go.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Twenty minutes later find him staring at his own reflection at the store loos, ashen and hyperventilating. He’d left Mary at the cash register, bile rising up in his stomach.</p><p>Sherlock always leaves.</p><p>If not today, he would’ve left some other time. He needed to go. <em>One of them</em> had to. John would have gladly gone himself, leaving both Sherlock and Mary and their cruel, taunting smiles behind if it wasn’t for the baby Mary’s carrying.</p><p>This, <em>them</em>—it wasn't sustainable. He and Sherlock together, they’re a ticking time bomb—they always have been. A matched set of fury, maladjustment, and frustration—circling and enabling each other for years.</p><p>Then Mary came along and lit up the match that burned all three of them alive.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He’s still watching himself in the mirror ten minutes later, holding tightly onto the sink. When the world isn’t spinning around him anymore he takes his phone out.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Is he ever coming back?</strong> </em>
</p><p>The answer finally arrives hours later, right before midnight.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>I wouldn’t count on it. MH</strong> </em>
</p><p>It brings with it a long, sleepless night.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He constructs a crib, paints the nursery, folds mountains of babygros, carries bags upon bags of nappies. There are birthing classes and chatty neighbours asking about the christening, and every so often Mary turns to look at him with a wide, warm smile.</p><p>John is empty inside.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“For Christ’s sake, John,” Mary huffs from the kitchen, “the baby’s not due for another month.”</p><p>He scowls, her words rousing him from forty-five minutes worth of staring at nothing out the window. “You wanted me to babyproof.” </p><p>“I asked you to babyproof, not lock the entire place up.” She steps over to the sitting room, placing a hand on her hip. “It’s like Pentonville in here.”</p><p><em>How would you know?</em> <em>Ever been?</em></p><p>It’s better, keeping things locked up. Safer, that way. Opening your heart and letting it get dragged in the mud the way Sherlock and Mary dragged his will leave a mark, will break even stronger men.</p><p>John’s not a strong man, not anymore. He’s been beaten down again and again, the prisoner of the consequences of his own life. Sure, he’s friendly with the guards, but it’s a prison, nonetheless.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When a nurse passes a wailing Rosie to him for the first time—Mary still breathless and aching—he’s so overwhelmed, his guard so thoroughly down, that he turns around to show Sherlock that Rosie’s got his eyes.</p><p>It’s a cruel punch to his stomach, physically painful, when the realization hits that Sherlock isn’t there. Mary’s sharp eyes add insult to injury as she reads him like an open book.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Rosie is two months old when a woman smiles shyly at him on the bus; she smiles some more when he pulls a daisy out of his hair and hands him a piece of paper signed ‘E’.</p><p>That day he vibrates with the knowledge that somebody, anybody, finally saw him. She looked at him and liked what she saw and smiled. A <em>harmless</em>, honest smile.</p><p>John texts her once, twice, but she never responds. A few days later he takes a big breath and calls, but the line is disconnected. Looking her number up on Google yields no hint; he never sees her again on the bus.</p><p>It’s as though this person never really existed.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He spends nearly every waking moment weighing his options.</p><p>Leave, stay, fight, flight.</p><p>He could leave, start over—as insurmountable as that sounds. People divorce and raise children separately, that’s nothing new. He’s the product of a broken home and while his parents were atrocious at making the most out of it for their children, he’s a passably functioning adult.</p><p>It’s not the actual act of separation, of single fatherhood that bothers him. It’s the prospect of the loneliness that he’ll be doomed for for the rest of his life. He’s never opening himself up for anyone else, another relationship, ever again—what good would that do, when he keeps falling for psychopaths who lie and hurt him?</p><p>There’s no more Sherlock or Baker Street to escape to and even if there were, Sherlock is a problem, not a solution. THE problem. Sherlock doesn’t want him—not that way, not ever.</p><p>For now, he stands behind his own decisions, his own promises, clinging to what little he has left; a house he feels like a stranger in, a job that’s killing him slowly, a wife that broke his heart one too many times and never even apologized.</p><p>John’s a soldier. He’ll make do.</p><p>He always does.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>September 2015</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>IDF’s Urim Intelligence Corps Base, Israel, 30 minutes from Gaza</em>
</p><p>“Welcome back, Mr. Knight, come in,” the young intelligence officer says as she opens the door to the Command and Operations bunker.</p><p>“Thank you, Lieutenant Shavit.” Sherlock steps hurriedly into the long, dark hall, relieved to feel the coolness of the air conditioning, a contrast to the scorching, humid, summer heat.</p><p>Israel is a sunny country, yet in his brief time here he’s spent most of it in these utilitarian, underground halls. Every army base and headquarters he’d visited so far looks exactly the same: grey, reinforced concrete; imposing buildings built quickly and hastily in the ‘50s and ‘60s—a fitting metaphor for the birth of this country. The bunker’s lighting fixtures buzz ominously, but they’re not the only source of the low grade sound that travels through his ears. The base is full of unseen activity, communication devices, dangerous looking corridors. He’d so far only seen a fraction of it.</p><p>“<em>Lieutenant Shavit</em>,” the woman guffaws childishly at his formality, “it’s Hila, I told you many times.”</p><p>“Right,” he says distractedly and shrugs, having deduced the woman far too many times in the past months.<em> Gained five pounds since he’d last seen her; religious father still disapproving of her insistence to stay in the army; still cheating on her boyfriend with her commanding officer (boring; happens every day in an army setting, nothing new to see here). </em></p><p>“So?” she starts cheerily enough, “how was your weekend?”</p><p>Sherlock exhales impatiently. “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, please tell me why I’m here.”</p><p>“I thought you Englishmen are supposed to be polite,” she says with a cutting Hebrew accent, mocking offence as she opens a heavy door to an ageing meeting room. In its centre stands a big flat screen TV. In the corner is an ancient looking water dispenser, right below a yellowing photograph of some dignitary; a Prime Minister perhaps.</p><p>“I thought you Israelis are supposed to be thick-skinned,” he murmurs, looking around the room in search of a hint as to why he was called in.</p><p>“All I know is that I was asked to make sure you have a working uplink for a video conference with London.” She clicks a few buttons and turns the TV screen on, waiting for an image to appear. “Burekas?” she asks brightly, pointing at the stale-looking pastries in the middle of the table.</p><p>“I’d rather be waterboarded.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s the right choice,” she chuckles as the welcome screen of the encrypted video conference software loads. She puts the remote back on the table and turns to leave the room as an image materializes on the screen. “There you go.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Hello, brother.” Mycroft’s voice reverberates through the empty room.</p><p>“For God’s sake, Mycroft—”</p><p>“It’s nice to hear your voice, too,” Mycroft smiles pointedly.</p><p>“Can your people do <em>nothing</em> right?” Sherlock continues his tirade, ignoring the interruption. “Why am I still here? The deal was that I’m to confirm his identity and then move on to the next assignment.”</p><p>“Calm down, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, “believe it or not, there are other things happening in the world right now."</p><p>"Such as?"</p><p>"Such as, the largest ever humanitarian immigrant crisis in Calais.”</p><p>“<em>So?</em>”</p><p>“Also, our incumbent Minister of Foreign Affairs has just created a rather embarrassing diplomatic Twitter incident regarding the new Hamas leadership. We’re treading lightly, diplomatically speaking.”</p><p>“A <em>Twitter incident</em> is more important than a British POW found alive in Gaza?”</p><p>“I’m afraid everything important happens on Twitter these days, Sherlock.”</p><p>“I’m not a babysitter. Wasting away with him in that safehouse is a dire misuse of my talents.”</p><p>“Let me remind you, Sherlock, that your ‘<em>talents’ </em>are the reason you are where you are right now.” Mycroft’s back straightens in anger. “You requested, and I agreed, to take on an unofficial post. That means you’ve also agreed to take orders and thereby obey them.”</p><p>“I did no such thing,” Sherlock huffs, crossing his arms.</p><p>“If you’re unhappy with your current situation you only have yourself to blame.” Mycroft continues, his voice stern. “We’re working on a safe retrieval operation. Abu Nazir’s people are still there, and we’re sure they’re looking for him. Hamas is demanding money in order to be ‘encouraged’ to protect the two of you when you leave the safehouse. We can't rely on them. An extraction plan needs to be foolproof, the execution perfect.”</p><p><em>You shoul have thought of that before</em>, he thinks bitterly. Sherlock grinds his teeth, knowing full well his brother is right. “The Israelis can do it.”</p><p>“The Israelis fulfilled their part in this deal, they won’t send their own soldiers into Gaza for us.”</p><p>“How much longer, then?”</p><p>“A week or two, I should think,” Mycroft says and stops a scandalized Sherlock from speaking further, “use this opportunity to recharge. How is Corporal Stewart doing?”</p><p>“Terribly,” Sherlock grumbles, looking away in frustration, “he barely speaks, doesn’t eat. Screams in his sleep.”</p><p>“He spent nine years in enemy captivity. He’ll need time to adjust.”</p><p>“He requires professional help.”</p><p>“Which he’ll get once he’s back on British soil. Although you are in a unique position to help him, wouldn’t you say? Another wounded soldier to heal. Right up your alley. Maybe this time you might actually succeed.”</p><p>“It’s not my job to fix him. Nor anybody else, for that matter.” Sherlock purses his lips at the jibe.  “What?”</p><p>“He’s a father now, you know,” Mycroft says solemnly, breaking the unspoken pact of things they do not discuss. “Should be around seven months now.”</p><p>“Yes, thank you. I can do maths.”</p><p>“Rosamund Mary,” Mycroft says and all the oxygen leaves Sherlock’s lungs. “Let’s hope the name is the only way she takes after her mother.”</p><p>Sherlock looks away wordlessly and clears his throat.</p><p>“She’s healthy, I gather. Functioning,” Mycroft continues, “and a bad sleeper, judging by the bags under her father’s eyes." The long, pregnant silence that fills the room leaves Mycroft with no choice but to forge on. “I don’t visit them, only receive occasional reports, of course.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“I can obtain some photographs, if you’d like, or send your congratulations.”</p><p>“No. No. Just get me out of here as soon as possible.”</p><p>“I’ll do my best.”</p><p>“See that you do.” Sherlock grimaces, his heart fluttering at the thought of young Rosamund Mary Watson.</p><p>She’s here.</p><p>She’d been nothing but an amorphous idea when he shook her father’s hand on a tarmac eight months ago. He’d been the first to be aware of her existence during her parents’ wedding—breaking the news to them.</p><p>This baby, conceived right around the time Sherlock was teaching her father to dance, giving himself wholeheartedly to the industrious enterprise of seeing the man in his arms marrying another.</p><p>He’d never meant to leave the wedding early. He was doing quite well until the realization about Mary’s pregnancy came to his mind, still riding the high of another case ending successfully. Sherlock had known right there and then what had to be done. He’d put on his coat, got into the car and left for Mycroft’s country house. It was time to go; he’d told Mycroft as much when he showed up on his brother’s doorstep. He’d demanded to leave, on his own terms this time, so that he couldn’t be blamed for creating any chaos in the baby’s life, in her father’s life.</p><p>He’d made a deal with the devil, or rather, his brother’s employers, in order to keep her unscathed.</p><p>Six months later he boarded a plane after saying a short, botched goodbye to John in front of Mycroft’s and Mary’s prying eyes.</p><p>It was the right thing to do. His instincts were proven right a month after that wedding. That deadly, miserable triangle—John, Mary, Sherlock—had combusted once and would combust again.</p><p>He blinks when he realizes Mycroft’s image is no longer on the screen. He missed that last part of the conversation, he supposes.</p><p>Sherlock stares at the table, relieved he’d refused a photograph. What good will that do? Sentiment. Silly sentiment. All babies look the same anyway, he could never really tell one from the other.</p><p>With a sigh he checks his pockets, making sure his fake passport is there; he’ll need it for his checkpoint passage into Gaza. Looking down, he stares at his passport photo, a stranger looking back at him. Gaunt. Short, ginger hair, brown contacts. He’s flaunting a scruffy beard these days, the red hairs glimmering in the Middle Eastern sun. He stands out like a lighthouse in the streets of Gaza on the rare occasion he leaves their hideout.</p><p>
  
</p><p>British citizen Peter Scott Knight. This is who he is now; the identity he’d chosen for this new person, the person he’ll be known as from now on. A fleeting nomad moving from one mystery to another—never staying in one place long enough for people to develop attachments and expectations he’ll never be able to live up to.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is long gone, and he won’t be back anytime soon.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Good News / 22 hours earlier</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>November, 2015</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Good News</em>
</p><p>“John.” Mary’s sharp voice travels through the sitting room, waking him. He opens his eyes and looks around, the room gathering shape slowly. It’s early morning—the sky is still grey, he orients himself quickly. The telly is on, muted.</p><p>He fell asleep on the sofa again. It’s the third night in a row this week.</p><p>Mary’s been counting too. He can see it in her eyes, narrow and begrudging. She rocks a groggy Rosie in her arms and steps into the kitchen without a word.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The surgery’s break room is empty at this hour, the only sounds that break through John’s brain are the tap water dripping slowly and the nearly muted news anchor from a 24-hour news network. He stares at his less-than-appetizing salad, fork in hand.</p><p>He’s not hungry.</p><p>His brain is groggy with a mixture of sleepless nights, emotional agitation and the ever-present, nagging sense that his world isn’t quite right. It hasn’t been right for ten months. It’s never right when John has to walk around the streets of London knowing Sherlock Holmes isn’t in Baker Street; when he still calls the house he lives in ‘Mary’s flat’, despite the fact that they are raising a child there together, a perfectly functioning couple.</p><p>Supposedly.</p><p>Men in functional relationships don’t have to take a big, calming breath before they reach for the knob of the door to their house. They don’t feel like they share a house with a domesticated panther; quiet and docile most of the time, waiting for the one thing that will make her pounce.</p><p>Most men don’t wake up with a start wondering whether this will be the day he finds that his wife has finally left him behind; unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed when he finds her there still. He reckons that’s why he sleeps on the sofa, expecting to hear her as she leaves.</p><p>He’s not sure he’d stop her if she did.</p><p>He's certain he wouldn’t have if it weren’t for Rosie.</p><p>He sighs and steals a glance at the telly. Breaking updates have been coming in all morning about a British POW found alive by NATO and Israeli forces in the Gaza Strip, right on the border with Egypt.</p><p>The soldier had been MIA and considered dead for nine years; John shivers with the realization that the period coincides roughly with his last tour, discharge and return to London.</p><p>And here he thought he’s been having a crappy decade.</p><p>John knows that time is a universal constant here on Earth. A second is a second everywhere, for everyone no matter what. But time seemed to have stretched unnaturally for John since Sherlock took off on that plane. His days are somehow longer; they go on and on, his body and mind lagging.</p><p>Mary was nearly seven months pregnant when they said their goodbyes on the tarmac; John is now the father of a seven-month-old baby. A baby Sherlock never met, and he has no idea if he ever will.</p><p>He hadn’t heard from Mycroft since January. He doesn’t know whether that’s good or bad. Does no news mean no developments? Is John supposed to assume that Sherlock is, by now, just plain dead?</p><p>But no, he’s been down that road before. He’d said his goodbye to Sherlock once, abandoned and broken-hearted, and he’s not falling for that again. If Mycroft wants John to accept that Sherlock is dead, he’ll have to present him with a body. He’s not even sure that will be convincing enough.</p><p>His brain will probably never accept a claim of Sherlock’s death ever again.</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t die. He’s invincible. John has to believe that, he realizes and grinds his teeth painfully. Any other eventuality is utterly unacceptable.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Dr. Watson?” The nurse knocks gently on the door and cracks it open, peeking inside.</p><p>“Yes, Liz?”</p><p>“There’s somebody here to see you,” she says apologetically.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Liz. Mrs. Williams was my last patient for the day,” John says as he packs his laptop, “you know it’s my turn with the baby.”</p><p>“It’s not a patient, Dr. Watson,” Liz says, unimpressed by his haste to leave as soon as possible. It’s their usual afternoon ritual.</p><p>“Who is it then?”</p><p>“Not sure,” she shrugs, “looks official.”</p><p>John sighs, not forgetting to grab the medical journal he’d been meaning to read tonight.</p><p>“If it’s that NHS tech support bloke, he's supposed to give me a heads up before he shows up,” John says as he makes the short walk to the break room, opening the door, “he can’t just expect me to—”</p><p>Mycroft Holmes stands ramrod straight by the window, staring at passers-by on the street. John could swear, would swear, that his heart had stopped beating for a full five seconds.</p><p>
  <em>Oh god, no. </em>
</p><p>“Mycroft?” he says, his voice high and shrill.</p><p>“Relax, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says, “I come bearing good news.”</p><p>John clears his throat and his shoulders slump in immediate relief.</p><p>“I trust you’ve heard the news today?” Mycroft asks, averting a curtain as he speaks.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“My brother is on a plane from Frankfurt as we speak. He’s due to land in London any minute.”</p><p>“Oh.” John closes his eyes in relief and lets a big breath out. “What does that have to do with—”</p><p>“He’s the brains behind the multinational team responsible for the rescue operation of Corporal Stewart.” Mycroft finally turns to look at John. “He’s done a truly commendable job. In a few months he’s managed something multiple intelligence agencies have failed to do for years.”</p><p>“Wow,” he gapes at Mycroft, lost for words, “that’s… amazing. Is…” He licks his lips nervously. “Is he alright?”</p><p>Mycroft takes a moment longer than needed to consider and John holds his breath.</p><p>“I spoke to him last night in Frankfurt,” Mycroft speaks clearly, confidently, though his tone is reserved. “He’s... healthy, if exhausted, which is understandable.”</p><p>John shakes his head, confused. That answer means absolutely nothing. “But is he alright?”</p><p>“Trust me to take good care of my brother, John,” Mycroft smiles, “he knew what he was getting into when he chose this assignment.”</p><p>“What was he doing in the Middle East?” John asks. “You said he was going to Eastern Europe again.”</p><p>“I’m not at liberty to say,” Mycroft says. “The only thing I can say is that at some point I received a request to get his help in the Middle East in an investigation into rumours swirling at the time about two British soldiers considered missing in action.”</p><p>“Two?” John frowns. “The news only mentioned one.”</p><p>“There were two of them originally. One of them disappeared, presumably killed, somewhere along the way. It’s still early days to tell for sure. We haven’t been able to get much out of Corporal Stewart yet, although he did confirm the other soldier’s death.”</p><p>“Well, when can I see him?” John says, his back straight in relief. “You said they should be landing any minute? I’ll call Mary, I’ll tell her—”</p><p>“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says, his voice tight, “Sherlock has just taken part in a very complicated operation. Every minute of his time will be accounted for over the next fortnight. He won’t be landing and coming back for tea with Mrs. H, I’m afraid. There will be debriefings, press events, medical and psychological evaluations. He’ll be required to account for every movement, every contact and detail he has accrued during his months away. His job isn’t over yet.”</p><p>“What are you saying, exactly?” John blinks stupidly at Mycroft, uncomprehending.</p><p>“He’s not to be disturbed.”</p><p>“Disturbed?” John scoffs. “I haven’t seen him in—”</p><p>“My brother will be getting a hero’s homecoming this time, John.” Mycroft comes closer slowly, towering over John. “He’s done a great service to this country, to that man. I will not let him be treated the way he was the last time he came back.”</p><p>“That was…” John scoffs, grinding his teeth in defensive anger. “That was <em>different.”</em></p><p>“Indeed it was.” Mycroft nods and heads for the door. “A press conference is planned for tonight. My brother won’t be speaking, but you should be able to catch a glimpse of him. You’ll see that he’s well. In the meantime I have to ask you to stay away. That goes for you as well as Mrs. Watson. Especially Mrs. Watson.”</p><p>“A press conference? Mycroft—”</p><p>“I’m saying this for your own good, John. You’re a family man now,” Mycroft says. “The last thing you need in your life right now is Sherlock Holmes, wouldn’t you agree?”</p><p>John stares at him as he goes, his heart racing and his mouth full of questions. But he knows Mycroft—he’d come here to relay a message, not negotiate a deal.</p><p>He doesn’t need Mycroft’s permission. Sherlock is his own man, and he will not refuse John. He’s back now, his mission over and——</p><p>John’s brain stops in its tracks when something Mycroft had said stands out to him. He runs to catch up with the man, grabbing his arm to stop him.</p><p>“You said Sherlock… chose this assignment?” he asks, prompting a raised brow from the other man. “What do you mean he <em>chose</em> it?”</p><p>Mycroft considers his words, then—to John’s surprise—he moves closer, speaking to John’s ears only.</p><p>“My brother requested to be re-enlisted with MI6, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft says. “It was in the works long before the...<em>situation</em>...with Magnussen. That unfortunate event allowed me to hasten the process.”</p><p>“<em>Re</em>-enlist?” John frowns. “When was he ever… Oh.”</p><p>Mycroft nods when he sees the realization landing in John’s eyes.</p><p>“No, he didn’t.” John snorts at the very idea of Sherlock choosing willingly to give away his freedom, possibly his life, for the British Government. “He wouldn’t do that.”</p><p>Mycroft raises a challenging eyebrow.</p><p>“When?” John asks in disbelief.</p><p>“May nineteenth of last year,” Mycroft says smugly, “I imagine you recognize the date.”</p><p>“That’s the…” John’s brows furrow.</p><p>“Day after your wedding. 2am on May 19th, to be precise. He showed up on my doorstep asking to be sent away.”</p><p>“What?” John scoffs in disbelief. “Why would he do that?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know,” Mycroft smiles sourly, “perhaps he’d thought himself overqualified to be nothing more than a glorified wedding planner.”</p><p>John’s eyes widen in shock, his jaw slack.</p><p>“Goodbye, Dr. Watson.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>22 hours earlier</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Fritzlar Air Base, Germany</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock stands in another grey, bare room, the hustle and bustle of activity around Corporal Stewart not penetrating the thick door.</p><p>The lone halogen ceiling fixture buzzes over his head. It feels like a nest of bees is plotting against him from above.</p><p>
  <em>How very fitting.</em>
</p><p>The small mirror in the loos is cracked, a thick vein of dereliction running across it. Still functional enough to serve its purpose, though; reflecting back just how exhausting the last 48 hours had been. Quite a fête it was. The Escape from Gaza: one for the books, only this is a story that will never be written but go down in history with the rest of history’s best intelligence operations.</p><p>He wipes his face with a heavy hand as he looks at himself in the mirror; his hair unkempt, his contacts making his eyes red and tired.</p><p>He turns around to look at the spindly bed behind him and examines his bags, then scans the room to ensure he leaves nothing behind him once he’s given the green light to leave.</p><p>Everything is in motion. Only the last piece of the puzzle remains.</p><p>“Mr. Knight.” A female officer with a German accent knocks softly as she opens the door. “Do you need an—”</p><p>“Where’s Mr. Holmes?” he asks brusquely, his demanding tone masking his frayed nervousness only barely.</p><p>“I’m right here.” Mycroft’s voice comes from behind the door, a step behind the woman. “No need to antagonize the entire airbase, Mr. Knight. Thank you, Lieutenant.”</p><p>“Sir.” She nods and walks away.</p><p>“Congratulations, br—”</p><p>“I need a word, Mycroft. Privately.”</p><p>Mycroft surveys the empty room, baffled. “There’s no one here.”</p><p>“Preferably some place none of your people can hear us, and certainly not the Germans.”</p><p>Mycroft frowns as he opens the door and closes it behind him for a short moment. He then opens it again and signals Sherlock to follow him. Sherlock steps outside and sees Anthea at the end of the hall. She leads them out of the building and to the outskirts of the base. They finally stop by a great, ancient tree.</p><p>“What is this about?”</p><p>“You can’t let Stewart land in London,” Sherlock half-whispers, his breath a white fog in the cold November air.</p><p>“What—”</p><p>“I was contacted by one of my assets hours before we left for the airport. He said he’d been trying to reach me for weeks but couldn’t locate the safehouse.”</p><p>“An asset?” Mycroft asks. “A Gazan asset?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“What did he say?”</p><p>“<em>A British warrior has been turned</em>.”</p><p>“A British warrior has…” Mycroft’s face falls. “A <em>warrior</em>?”</p><p>“A soldier, Mycroft.”</p><p>“He said this in English?” Mycroft clarifies and Sherlock nods. “Who is this asset? How do you know he’s reliable?”</p><p>“He owns a launderette in the neighbourhood of our safehouse. It’s a front for a foreign currency exchange, and he speaks up very quickly if you pay him enough. He has family in Afghanistan, a family connected with insurgent groups. They tell him things.”</p><p>Mycroft says nothing, only narrows his eyes as he considers Sherlock’s words.</p><p>“Everything else he’s ever told me checked out, Mycroft.”</p><p>“I’m sure it did,” Mycroft says hesitantly, “but the timing’s rather suspicious, wouldn’t you say? Why are we only hearing about this now?”</p><p>“Because the news about Stewart broke out in Israel the day before,” Sherlock says. “One of their politicians slipped up on live television. He’d heard the rumours months ago, but didn’t know about a British POW that was still alive.”</p><p>“Sherlock—”</p><p>“How many living British POWs are there currently in the Middle East, Mycroft?”</p><p>“Zero.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Sherlock nods, “now that I’ve brought the last one here with me.”</p><p>“So what you're suggesting is—”</p><p>“That it wasn’t an accident we were tipped off about Stewart,” Sherlock whispers as he moves closer to his brother, “that we, that I, were meant to find him.”</p><p>“Are you suggesting that someone wanted us to find Corporal Stewart?” Mycroft asks. “That this was planned?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Who? And why?”</p><p>“Abu Nazir.”</p><p>“Sherlock, there were more than fifty casualties in that raid, all Abu Nazir’s men.”</p><p>“So?” Sherlock asks, wide-eyed. “How big of a sacrifice would that be considered if Abu Nazir has a much bigger, more sinister plan? And where <em>is</em> Abu Nazir, by the way?”</p><p>“Sherlock—”</p><p>“You never found his body, did you?”</p><p>“No, we didn’t, you know that,” Mycroft says. “But... no one in Mossad or MI6 has cottoned on?”</p><p>“You’ve all missed bigger things than that, Mycroft.”</p><p>Mycroft sighs, ignoring the jibe. “To what end?”</p><p>“Honestly, Mycroft.” Sherlock stares, his eyebrows raised.</p><p>Mycroft sighs again, loudly this time; they both know the answer to that question. A terrorist attack. A brutal, ground shaking terrorist attack on British soil.</p><p>“Do you have any proof?”</p><p>“Proof?” Sherlock asks. “I was stuck in a safehouse, incommunicado for two months. It’s not my job to get you proof. I delivered Stewart and I’m relaying a message. Get your people on it.”</p><p>“My people, Sherlock?” Mycroft whispers. “You know very well I can’t trust my own people with this. If what you’re saying is true there’s a chance someone from Mossad or even our end planted that information for you to end up there.”</p><p>“That’s your problem now, Mycroft,” Sherlock says pointedly.</p><p>“Did you get any sense at all anything was off with him?”</p><p>“No, absolutely not,” Sherlock admits weakly.</p><p>“Then we don’t really have much to go on, do we?” Mycroft’s face sours. “We can’t afford another mistake after Magnussen, Sherlock. This assignment was supposed to be your get out of jail card.”</p><p>“Would you rather we just ignore a reliable asset?”</p><p>“No, of course not,” Mycroft sighs, “we’ll be hanged if we blame an innocent man, and we’ll be hanged if we bring a terrorist onto UK soil.”</p><p>“You have to stop him from reaching London, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, “that’s your safest bet. Hold off on the homecoming. Fly your best investigator in for a debrief, someone who can pick his story apart.”</p><p>“We can’t do that. It’ll draw suspicion. The entire government is waiting for me to bring him back.”</p><p>“Unbelievable.” Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief. “Only you can politicize a possible terrorist, Mycroft.”</p><p>“<em>Everything</em> is politicized, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is scathing, “What do you think gave me leverage enough to convince my colleagues to send my cold-blooded murderer of a brother on this rescue mission?”</p><p>Sherlock swallows angrily at Mycroft’s harsh words, looking away.</p><p>“The government needs a win, and I’d promised them you’d get it.”</p><p>“What are you on about?”</p><p>“The opposition is pushing to leave the EU, and now that we’re out of Afghanistan protesters are demanding that we leave NATO too. Stewart is the Prime Minister’s poster boy for staying in. He needs this press conference to show the importance of the UK’s involvement in both NATO and the EU. Your future, my future and the future of this government relies on this, Sherlock, so I’ll ask you again: are you<em> sure</em>?”</p><p>“No, of course I’m not sure!”</p><p>“Alright.” Mycroft twists his lips angrily, exhaling loudly. “Alright. But we have to bring him back to London. And you’re coming back with us.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Sherlock!”</p><p>“We have a deal, Mycroft!”</p><p>“We have a terrorist plot on our hands, brother dear. The deal is off,” Mycroft says. “We’ll need eyes and ears on him as soon as he lands, and you’re the only one who has any baseline on his behaviour.”</p><p>“I’ll be far more useful if I go back to Gaza,” Sherlock says. “I’ll work this from the ground. Reach out to my asset, dig into this a bit more.”</p><p>“You didn’t really think you’ll be able to avoid London forever, did you, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks, leaning against his cane. “You’ll be needed at some point, you know that. It was only ever a matter of time.”</p><p>Sherlock closes his eyes in anger, bracing himself for a long moment.</p><p>“Under one condition, Mycroft,” he says in defeat. “This is temporary.”</p><p>Mycroft clears his throat, nods wordlessly.</p><p>“I’ll need equipment,” Sherlock grumbles, “surveillance equipment. And anyone you trust enough for me to run off the book.”</p><p>“I’ll have Anthea set everything up.” They nod to each other in understanding. “If what you’re saying is true… you’ll have to work quickly.”</p><p>Sherlock looks away, lost in thought, his brain already formulating plans and reanalysing every conversation he’d ever had with the soldier.</p><p>“Stewart can’t know who I am.” He says.</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“And we don’t have time for your legal nonsense.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively.</p><p>“I’m a no-nonsense man.”</p><p>Sherlock clears his throat nervously, his breath hitching. “...I’ll need you to—”</p><p>“I’ll talk to him.”</p><p>Sherlock nods, his eyes averted.</p><p>“Though I doubt he’ll listen,” Mycroft grumbles, his voice barely audible.</p><p>Sherlock swallows, staring into the distance for a long moment before joining Mycroft on the way back to the central building.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Homecoming / Different</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>If you're more a visual type of person and you're wondering what Corporal Stewart and Sherlock look like, I'd like to direct you to this inspiring <a href="https://i29.photobucket.com/albums/c292/ramcibella/Actores%20-%20Varios/Series/Sherlock/Benedict%20Cumberbatch/tumblr_liak54bTrw1qdojd4o1_500.jpg">ginger!batch</a> look and a rather casual looking <a href="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/dqYzexCuTrA/hqdefault.jpg">Sam Heughan</a>.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Homecoming</strong>
</p><p>Mary places a warm, sated Rosie in his arms before he even shuts the door behind him. The baby is bundled in a fuzzy towel and smells of soap and laundry detergent. Her post-shower doze is interrupted abruptly by her father’s appearance in her field of vision. She smiles sweetly and gurgles, her way of welcoming him back at the end of a long day.</p><p>“Here,” Mary says, walking away, “done with the bath. She needs to eat, and I need a bath myself. Might take a while. Need to wash my hair.”</p><p>John smiles back at Rosie, her innocent eyes dark blue. He sighs as he bundles her closely and rushes to the nursery to get her dressed and fed. He tries to allow his brain to relax and focus on this task at hand, one he’s done religiously every day since she was born; drying her off properly, cooing and smiling; spreading diaper ointment as he tells her a story about a tall detective; snuggling her warmly after he fastens the babygro.</p><p>“Sherlock is home,” he whispers as he kisses her soft cheek. “You’re going to love him.”</p><p>John stands, dizziness suddenly taking over, amazed at the words he’d just said; at how quickly his emotions switched from grief and anger into excitement at the prospect of seeing Sherlock again.</p><p>He’s supposed to be angry. He’s supposed to be upset over being left behind again. It’s exactly how he’d felt from the moment Sherlock took off on that plane; from that moment on he was blessedly focused on <em>the baby</em>. It was a much-needed distraction; kept his mind away from the cracks in his marriage, from the gaping hole in his heart that Sherlock’s absence put there.</p><p>And now Sherlock’s back.</p><p>If John was a smart man he’d ignore every possible mention of Sherlock Holmes and forget he ever existed. He can’t go through that again. He can’t hope again. But John is never very smart when it comes to Sherlock. The man is like a black hole. His gravitational field pulls on John far too strongly.</p><p>He grabs on to Rosie, holding her close and shushing her as he walks to the sitting room and turns the telly on.</p><p>There aren’t that many updates yet. The camera crews are now on the tarmac of an RAF air base. John swallows nervously in anticipation, in worry. Mycroft was evasive in his description of Sherlock’s condition. Was he in Afghanistan? He certainly spent some time in the Middle East, possibly Gaza. Was he doing the leg work or did he order other intelligence officers around?</p><p>Last time Sherlock came back, John had no inkling what was coming. He wasn’t prepared, and he attacked him like a bruised, frightened animal. Now John knows—not only that he’s coming back, but what Sherlock had done while he was away. He brought a person back to life—not physically, but in finding him Sherlock conjured a miracle for the man’s wife and loved ones.</p><p>There’s movement near the podium at the centre of the frame. People are gathering around it, and the reporter speaks over the loud hum of background commotion.</p><p>“As we reported, Corporal Stewart is one of two Royal Marines who went missing in action nine years ago, during a mission in the Helmand region in Afghanistan.” The reporter speaks loudly to the camera. “A sniper by training, Corporal Stewart was kidnapped along with his spotter, Corporal Jonathan Palmer, from their compound’s observation tower.”</p><p>“The soldiers were then separated, according to reports. Stewart was eventually rescued two months ago from the Gaza sanctuary of master terrorist, Sulman Abu Nazir. The successful rescue operation was a result of multinational cooperation, operating on intel from a well respected intelligence unit of a Middle Eastern country. More details on his captivity are expected to come out over the coming days, but a military spokesperson says that she, just like the rest of the country, is happy to greet him as the true hero that he is....”</p><p><em>Two months ago?</em> John wonders. <em>What took so long to bring them back, then? Where was Sherlock this whole time?</em></p><p>He hears Mary making tea somewhere in his periphery. She doesn’t offer him tea anymore; it’s a kindness of the sort that no longer exists in their marriage. He fastidiously ignores her when she scans him from head to toe as she sits down on the sofa, sensing his nervousness.</p><p>“Ah, the hero returns,” she says, and he flinches when he catches a patronizing undertone in her voice.</p><p>“What?” he asks pointedly.</p><p>“This soldier, returning from the cold,” she says, and he realizes she doesn’t mean Sherlock. She doesn’t know about Sherlock, and he’s not about to tell her.</p><p><em>What would you know about sacrifice for your country?</em> He thinks. <em>Which country are you even from?</em></p><p>John stops dead in his tracks when a line of dignitaries finally step forward; most are uniformed, some politicians and civil servants. He squints searching for Sherlock’s familiar figure. The suit, his shock of black hair.</p><p>He can’t find him.</p><p>The clicks of cameras increase substantially as a dazed looking soldier takes the stage slowly. The Corporal is a tall, imposing man, with blond-ginger hair and a square jaw. His wife’s hand in his, they look around as if unsure how they ended up where they are.</p><p>They look uncomfortable and exposed as camera flashes pop around them. John can’t imagine how it must feel to reunite after not speaking for so long... technically strangers, after being sure one of you was—</p><p><em>But you do know, don’t you?</em> The realization hits him. He does. Except these two have it much worse, don’t they? They’d probably only reunited no more than a few hours ago and now here they are, their awkwardness broadcasted for the entire world to see.</p><p>The First Secretary of State takes the stage, his stance confident over the podium.</p><p>“Corporal Stewart,” the man begins, “on behalf of the Prime Minister and a grateful country, it is my privilege to welcome you home. There is no greater sacrifice…” He continues with his platitudes as John hesitantly moves closer to the screen, searching.</p><p>
  <em>Mycroft said he’ll be there.</em>
</p><p>“Though we’re no longer fighting a war in Afghanistan, we’ve proven our necessity on the world’s stage and in the NATO pact during those years of sacrifice,” the politician continues, “and it is that dedication to our allies that gave us the information and resources needed to bring you, Corporal, back to your loving wife and family…”</p><p>John suddenly notices Stewart turning his back slightly and looking over his shoulder for a split second. Following the soldier’s glance, John's eyes finally fall on the target. It’s a man standing as far away from the many dignitaries as possible, as if attempting very hard not to be seen. You’d have to look for him to see him, just like John just did.</p><p>He’d recognize this man anywhere, anytime, even if a hundred years had passed.</p><p>No suit, no coat. No shock of black curls. It’s Sherlock, right there, but he’s… different. He’s in an all black getup—black trousers, black jumper, heavy boots. A thick, dark-grey scarf around his neck, covering a large chunk of his face. His hair is… ginger, or maybe reddish? And… shorter, cut very neatly into a natural wave. He wears sunglasses, though it’s quite late in the day.</p><p>He looks like an undercover bodyguard. <em>He looks… good</em>, John admits to himself, his stomach fluttering as his worries about Sherlock’s physical condition melt away. <em>Bloody different, but good. </em></p><p>“Is that... Sherlock?” Mary speaks suddenly, making him jump.</p><p>He clears his throat. “Looks like it, yeah.”</p><p>“What’s he doing there?”</p><p>“I suppose he was… involved somehow?” He feigns ignorance.</p><p>“You knew about this?”</p><p>“Mycroft cornered me right before I left the surgery, yeah.”</p><p>“So he’s coming back?”</p><p>“Looks like it.”</p><p>She tilts her head to the side, her eyes sharp but inscrutable.</p><p>“Corporal, please.” They both turn to find the First Secretary of State signalling the soldier to replace him at the microphone. He walks over slowly, hanging tightly onto the sides of the podium. As he scans the audience he clears his throat, perhaps unsure what to say.</p><p>Stewart turns again to look in Sherlock's direction, but then turns quickly back to the cameras before finally speaking.</p><p>If Sherlock's trying to remain unseen, the Corporal is doing a hack job of it.</p><p>“Thank you, sir,” he says, addressing the politician, a barely noticeable Scottish accent in his speech. John’s surprised when his voice is calm and confident, a complete contrast to his physical appearance. “I'm not really too good at making speeches. I’m not even sure about this title of war hero. I suppose I’m still a bit overwhelmed, though every effort has been made to make my return as comfortable as possible. All I can say for sure right now is that I’m happy to be back. In my eyes, the true heroes are the men and women who risked their own lives to save mine. I’ll forever be in their debt. I’d also like to thank you all for your prayers and your good wishes hoping I’d return safe one day. I'm a lucky man. Thank you.”</p><p>Stewart turns to move away, firmly shaking the politician’s hand.</p><p>“What’s he got to do with any of this?” she asks. “I thought he left for Eastern Europe.”</p><p>“Don’t know,” he says, shaking his head.</p><p>Mary hums knowingly.</p><p>“What?” he bites.</p><p>“He must have royally fucked something up if he’s back.”</p><p>“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks angrily. “What would you even know about any of this?”</p><p>“I don’t,” she says, “but there’s something they’re not telling you.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Don’t know,” she shrugs, throwing his own words back at him. “What do I even know about these things?”</p><p>He gets off the sofa, searching for the remote in hopes of turning the volume up, so he can ignore her more easily. It’s useless. He feels his anger flaming quickly.</p><p>Mary had mostly kept to herself in recent months, and it made him forget just how quickly she’s capable of pulling the rug from under his feet. He scoffs angrily at her accusation and turns to look at the screen again. The stage is now empty and the reporter is recapping the events.</p><p>“I’m off to bed,” she says. “It’s been a long day. Don’t forget to change her before you put her down for the night.”</p><p>John stares at the screen, realizing Sherlock is no longer there.</p><p>“John?” she asks when he doesn’t acknowledge her.</p><p>“Alright, yeah. In a moment. I want to watch a bit more.”</p><p>He feels her stare, silent but loud and lasting a very long minute before she finally gives up and heads for the stairs. When the bedroom door finally closes he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials Sherlock’s number.</p><p>The line is out of service. Undeterred, he sits down to write a text.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Welcome back. There’s a young Ms. Watson here who’d like to meet you. Let me know when you’re available.</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Different</strong>
</p><p>Moments after the homecoming ceremony, Sherlock storms in to join Mycroft in an empty control room filled to the brim with video equipment. The video stream broadcasts the live feed from a sitting room in another part of the building.</p><p>He sniffs angrily at Mycroft but doesn’t say another word, still surprised to find himself back in London. He’d said his goodbye to David when he left Gaza; never imagining he might still have to keep up appearances here.</p><p>These first few days back in London are going to prove to be critical; if what his source in Gaza had said is true - every conversation, every interaction David makes from now on could be with an accomplice, a potential terrorist.</p><p>“Anthea had to use a significant portion of her talent to gain us access here,” Mycroft says. “Let’s hope it gets us something useful.”</p><p>“I doubt that,” Sherlock says coolly, his expectations low. “They’re not idiots, they know they’re being watched. It’s just another piece of the puzzle.”</p><p>They turn their heads at one of the screens when the door opens and David and his wife, Alison, and another soldier step hesitantly into the room. Their body language is awkward, and they stare at each other silently for a long moment.</p><p>“So…” says the unknown officer, “they said you can talk in here for a moment before you’re off.”</p><p>“Thank you.” David nods his head in thanks, but the man doesn’t turn to leave the room.</p><p>“Who’s that?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“Captain Henry Mason,” Mycroft says, “the bereavement visiting officer assigned to the Stewart family.”</p><p>"Captain Mason, was it?" David asks and the man nods. “Could you give us a moment, please?” </p><p>“Oh…” Alison says, looking between the two men.</p><p>“Oh, of course,” Henry says and nods at Alison. “I’ll be outside.”</p><p>“So.…” Alison starts as the door closes, clasping her hands in front of her body. “What happens now?”</p><p>“I’m to stay here for a while,” David says, “a couple of weeks. It’s protocol. At least that’s what they said. They need any information they can get out of me.”</p><p>“I see,” she nods slowly, looking around the room. “That was nice, the ceremony.”</p><p>“Yeah,” David says with a smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. Alison smiles awkwardly, nervously.</p><p>“You know, I just realized…” David frowns and shuffles his legs. “I shook the First Secretary of State’s hand and I don’t even know his name.”</p><p>“Neither do I.”</p><p>They look around the room, avoiding each other’s eyes, when Alison spots a small kitchenette with a kettle.</p><p>“Do you… do you want some tea? Do you still take it with four spoons of sugar?” she asks with a teasing smile.</p><p>“I… don’t know,” David says, his discomfort shining brightly in the dark room.</p><p>“Do you… do you need anything?” She tries a different approach. “Anything from home? I can send you some…” She stops. Sherlock feels an unexpected  twitch of sympathy when the realization dawns on him too. There’s nothing at home for Stewart he might actually need. He hadn’t been home in nine years.</p><p>“Where… where is home, by the way?”</p><p>“Same place.”</p><p>“Really?” David sighs in relief.</p><p>“Yeah,” she says, “and it’s been swarmed by bloody reporters since yesterday. They keep knocking on the bloody door asking for an interview.”</p><p>“Let your Mum have a word with them,” he chuckles. “She’ll give them a run for their money.”</p><p>Alison's smile disappears and David’s face falls. “When?”</p><p>“Four years ago,” she half-whispers.</p><p>"What..." he gasps. "What hapened?"</p><p>"Heart attack."</p><p>“I’m sorry.” He sighs and moves to hold her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. “I’m so sorry, Al, this is…” He loses his train of thought. “I’m sorry this is so weird. Everything just feels so… different.”</p><p>Alison nods, holding back a sob and taking a big, grounding breath.</p><p>“David, listen—”</p><p>A knock on the door interrupts her; an officer opens the door.</p><p>“Corporal, you’re needed for your first briefing.”</p><p>“Sir—” David starts, but she interrupts him.</p><p>“It’s alright. Go.”</p><p>“Are you sure? Can we have another minute please?”</p><p>“No, really,” she says warmly, patting his arm gently, “it can wait.”</p><p>“Alright,” he says with a smile, straightening his uniform and leaning in to hug Alison.</p><p>Mycroft clears his throat uncomfortably at the sight, then turns to look at Sherlock. “That was even less helpful than I imagined.”</p><p>Clenching his jaw in mild frustration, Sherlock nods once, twice. He turns to leave the room, letting the door slam behind him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. interlude I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong></strong>
</p><p> I</p><p>
  <strong></strong>
</p><p>“<em>God save our gracious Queen... Long live our noble Queen...</em>” Dust scattered, filling his nostrils as the ancient shovel hits the arid desert sand. “<em>God save the Queen...</em>” he sang, his voice hoarse and his throat dry.</p><p>His muscles screamed as he picked the shovel up, gaining momentum.</p><p>“<em>...Send her victorious,</em>” he continued and groaned as the shovel hit the ground again, and he fell down, his body giving in, “<em>happy and glorious</em>—fuck—”</p><p>“<em>Dowam kawul</em>!” the guard shouted and struck his back with the barrel of his gun, once, twice. He looked up at the man, the sun blinding him, but before had a chance to say anything else, the man punched his nose.</p><p>“FUCK!” he yelled as black spots covered his vision, blood spilling down his lips, his wounded jaw.</p><p>“Dig! Dig now!”</p><p>“Fuck you!” he yelled, and that’s the last thing he remembered before the guard’s heavy boot hit him squarely on the head. He staggered backward, the world turning black around him as he dropped in a heap to the floor.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Cross-Examination / The Other Woman / Change of Plans</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Be brave in the face of David's cross examination here - it's important to understand Sherlock's suspicions. The angst and drama continue immediately afterwards :)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>RTI training = Resistance to interrogation, a type of military training to British and other NATO soldiers to prepare them, after capture by the enemy, to resist interrogation techniques such as humiliation and torture.</p><p> </p><p>Please heed the newest tag, mention of war time torture.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John wakes abruptly early the next morning, his hand grabbing his phone even as his eyes are still closed. He turns to look at a sleeping Mary, surreptitiously checking the screen for any sign from Sherlock.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>He sighs and places the phone back on the bedside table, staring at the ceiling. Mycroft had said Sherlock wouldn’t be available at first. John thinks he’d mentioned two weeks. But John never expects Sherlock to actually listen to anything so… institutional. Follow Protocol. Bureaucracy. Proper behavior.</p><p>Getting up, he checks on Rosie. She’s minutes away from her usual wake-up time, and she looks incredibly peaceful in sleep. He stands by the window of the nursery, half expecting to see the man staring back at him from the street.</p><p>If there’s one thing Sherlock is good at it’s making an entrance, isn’t it?</p><p>He takes a photo of the sleeping baby and attaches it to a text.</p><p>
  <em>
    <strong>Good morning. Are you alright? Drop us a line when you can. Rosie can’t wait to meet you.</strong>
  </em>
</p><p>Hours later, when he gets no response, his chest fills with a strange mixture of anxiety and relief.</p><p>He’s been down this road before, in the days after Sherlock came back last time. He needs to say something, anything, of the things he wanted to say back on the tarmac. He needs to ask a million questions, understand so many things.</p><p>He needs closure, and he needs it now.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Cross-Examination (Intel Corps HQ, Bedfordshire)</strong>
</p><p>Mycroft adjusts his earpiece and takes a breath before he enters the meeting room. He’d had to hastily read up on Corporal Stewart’s initial debrief in Germany; it's something he wouldn’t normally delve into himself, letting Anthea summarize the important details for him.</p><p>He and Sherlock had spent the last few hours going over every available note, trying to find holes in the corporal’s story. He only has a few possible threads to pull. The man had been gone for years and his mental condition is yet to be determined.</p><p>He’s suspicious of that asset’s timing, but he knows better than to disregard his brother’s instincts.</p><p>“<em>Clear your throat, so I know you can hear me.</em>” Sherlock whispers in his ear. He does as instructed and opens the door to the lavish officers’ meeting room.</p><p>Anthea really is a top-notch professional. Sneaking audio equipment into the Intel Corps HQ successfully is exactly the reason he pays that exorbitant salary.</p><p>“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” Major White says. “We were just about to start.”</p><p>“Do go on,” he smiles politely.</p><p>“Thank you.” The Major nods and turns to look at Corporal Stewart. “Corporal, how was your first night back?”</p><p>David clears his throat, offering an apologetic smile. “I’ve had worse.”</p><p>“Of course. Though we are hoping to make your stay here comfortable. If there’s anything we can do, please let us know.” David nods in thanks and the Major continues. “Many of us present in this room were involved in the operation which resulted in your rescue. We’re very happy to have you here with us and welcome you back as the hero that you are.”</p><p>“Thank you, sir.”</p><p>“Now, we've all read your debrief from Germany, but it is our job to make sure we get every piece of information possible.” The Major says and nods around the table. “The purpose of this questioning is to help us in our ongoing fight against terror.”</p><p>“I understand.”</p><p>“There will be additional debriefs during your stay here, but we’ll try to make this one long and conclusive. The rest of your time here will include acclimation support, freshening up on military knowledge and additional re-training.”</p><p>“Understood.”</p><p>“Excellent,” another officer says. “Corporal, I’m Captain Jenkins and I’m the lead analyst in our Afghanistan section. I’d like to start with a few questions about the day of your capture. Were you briefed on possible breaches in your compound that day?”</p><p>“No,” David says. “Not that I remember.”</p><p>“Do you remember anything at all being out of place that day?” Jenkins asks. “Anything at the compound that seemed out of the ordinary?”</p><p>“No, sir.”</p><p>“Do you recall what happened in the minutes leading up to the raid on your compound?”</p><p>“I think…” David starts. “I think the electricity failed? The generators? Which meant the alarms didn’t go off.”</p><p>“Yes,” Jenkins says. “That’s what our investigation into that night concluded too, that you tried to sound the alarm but it didn’t work due to a fault in the generators.”</p><p>“Yes.” David nods.</p><p>Mycroft listens for further questions when he hears Sherlock’s voice in his ear, feeding him one of his own.</p><p>“Corporal, does protocol allow snipers to take on observation duty at a compound’s tower together with their spotters?”</p><p>The entire table turns to look at Mycroft, surprised by the unexpected question.</p><p>“It’s… it’s generally preferred that they don’t,” David says.</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“I suppose… to not endanger a compound’s two snipers at once, I’d say.”</p><p>“And yet you and Corporal Palmer were both taken from the same observation tower that night.”</p><p>“Y-yes.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Ewan wasn’t feeling well that night. One of the lads from our section—” David clarifies, “he came down with a fever just before the shift. Captain Aldridge told the rest of us that whoever finished dinner first would have to replace him.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Mycroft nods and allows Jenkins to continue with his line of questioning.</p><p>Sherlock speaks in Mycroft’s ear again minutes later.</p><p>“Do you remember any specific questions you were asked during your initial interrogations by your captors?” Mycroft asks.</p><p>“It was everything from… from who I was, where I lived. Names of my girlfriends, of friends from school. And then… supply routes, communication codes, rules of engagement. Names of soldiers from our compound, days of new sections arrivals. That sort of thing.”</p><p>“You mentioned you gave no such information.”</p><p>“That’s right,” David nods. “Our RTI training proved itself.”</p><p>“Quite so,” Mycroft smiles. “And what about Corporal Palmer?”</p><p>“Sir?”</p><p>“Did he give anything up?”</p><p>“We were never interrogated together,” David says. “So I’m… I’m not sure.”</p><p>“You were captured together, though.” Mycroft notes. David nods. “And kept in the same compound.”</p><p>“At first at least.”</p><p>“And you never saw each other despite being kept in the same compound?”</p><p>“Not that I remember, no.”</p><p>“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” Jenkins says and turns to David. “Now, tell us about—”</p><p>“I saw satellite images of that first compound, though.” Mycroft cuts Jenkins off. “It was demolished by US forces a few years ago. It’s quite small. Three, perhaps four separate rooms. And yet you say you never saw Palmer.”</p><p>“No sir, I didn’t.”</p><p>“When did you learn of Palmer’s death?” Mycroft continues.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Were you explicitly told he’d died?”</p><p>David stares at Mycroft, confused. “N-no…”</p><p>“I saw the tapes of the first hours after your rescue in Gaza,” Mycroft says. “You appeared to have known that Palmer was dead when one of the operatives broke the news to you.”</p><p>“Well…” David scoffs. “I knew well enough that I hadn’t seen him in ages. I haven’t heard them mention his name for so long, and they never moved him to Gaza, I know that for sure. So I… assumed.”</p><p>“You never heard anything? Never saw any sign of a body?” another officer asks.</p><p>“I… you have to remember, they would throw me into a dungeon in order to torture me for days on end,” he says. “I’d… hallucinate. Lose consciousness, in and out. I can’t say my state of mind was very... coherent.”</p><p>“Of course not,” Mycroft nods. “So why didn’t they kill you?”</p><p>“Mr. Holmes—” another officer begins but Mycroft cuts him off.</p><p>“As you know, the first 72 hours after a soldier's capture are critical.” Mycroft scans the room. “What he knows can be used by the enemy during that period to devastating effect. Corporal Stewart stopped being a source of actionable intelligence fairly quickly, and yet he was kept alive for nine years. Not only that, he was moved to a far away, second location. They’ve taken a significant risk in moving him. I'd like to know why.”</p><p>“Sir, I often wondered that myself.” David shakes his head in disbelief. “No, what’s more—I prayed for that. They’d tortured me for years on end. There were weeks I couldn’t remember my own name. Death would have been a kindness. But they weren’t kind people.”</p><p>The mood in the room dampens suddenly, the officers moving in their chairs over David’s words.</p><p>“No, of course not.” Mycroft clears his throat. “Well, even if you don’t know the reason, it’s imperative that we understand why,” he says, aiming his words at the intel officers. “The reason would be an important lesson for us. We know it’s not for bargaining—unlike the Israelis, the British government doesn’t bargain with terrorists. They must have felt there was another reason, nonetheless.”</p><p>The room falls quiet as notes are taken.</p><p>“When would you say you were moved from Afghanistan to Gaza?” another officer asks.</p><p>“I… it’s hard to say.” David shakes his head. “Years, I’d say. But not sure how many. The first and only time I got some glimpse into the outside world was after Britain left Afghanistan. They showed me a cut out of a piece in The Guardian about it. I saw the date then.”</p><p>“So about a year ago,” Jenkins clarifies and David nods.</p><p>“They used that against me,” David says and stares at the table. “They said… they said my country had given up on me. That I was left behind and… and no one remembered I was out there. It was...”</p><p>“Why were you moved?” Jenkins asks.</p><p>“I... I don’t know.” David chuckles nervously. “They didn’t really consult with me. All I know is one moment they covered my head with a sack and injected me with something. Next thing I know we were someplace else. I only realized we moved when all of a sudden the lower ranks weren’t speaking Pashto but Arabic. I couldn’t understand them anymore, any of them.”</p><p>“Who did you interact with in Gaza?” the officer asks. “Were they the same people? Did they move to Gaza with you?”</p><p>“No,” David says. “There was no one left. There was a guard. His name was Nadi.”</p><p>Mycroft pulls a photo out of the dossier he’s been holding. “Have you ever seen this man in the Gaza compound?” he asks David, who sends a sharp, surprised glance his way. “Do you know who this is?”</p><p>“Of course I do,” David says. “Everyone in Afghanistan knew.”</p><p>“Did you ever meet him?”</p><p>“Abu Nazir?” David's brows furrow. “Of course not.”</p><p>“Never?” Mycroft asks. “He lived at that compound. We found his phone there. Two of his wives died there. Though, we never found his body.”</p><p>“Bloody hell,” David shakes his head. “I think I’d know if I met Abu Nazir, sir.”</p><p>“Were you tortured and interrogated in Gaza?” Mycroft asks.</p><p>“Yes, sir.”</p><p>“What about? It’d been years since you were in any active service, had any useful information.”</p><p>“Just for fun, I suppose.” David says with a piercing glare.</p><p>“But Abu Nazir wasn’t there.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Mr. Holmes,” Jenkins cuts Mycroft short. “We really do need to focus on more specific questions relating to the Corporal’s memories of his period in Afghanistan. Are these questions critical right now?”</p><p>“I suppose not. I was just wondering,” Mycroft says. “Abu Nazir was in charge of coordinating attacks against coalition forces at the time. No one had more reason to sit down with a British POW than he did.”</p><p>They all turn to look at David. The man shakes his head cluelessly.</p><p>“Move along, then,” Mycroft says with a sour smile. He looks at the camera at the top of the room, signalling Sherlock to hold off any questions.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“These people are idiots, Mycroft,” Sherlock says over his shoulder as his brother joins him at a distant part of the base’s running track. Sherlock had been running for a good twenty minutes, his breath heavy and his cheeks pink with exertion. “You should be worried. This entire country should be worried if these are their top intelligence officers.”</p><p>“It’s a necessary evil, letting them investigate him for now,” Mycroft says. “This is his official version of events. It’ll give us something to refute should anything contradictory come up as your own investigation moves forward. Speaking of which, did you hear anything you can act on?”</p><p>“Maybe.”</p><p>“I’ll need a lot more than that to go on if we’re to launch a full-on investigation, Sherlock.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“I’ve already launched a full-on investigation, Mycroft.”</p><p>“Have you?” Mycroft asks with a condescending smile. “How?”</p><p>“I have my sources. Look at this,” Sherlock says and pulls out an army issued tablet from his running jacket.</p><p>“Sherlock, stealing army property is—”</p><p>“Shut up,” he says and loads a video, showing images of the homecoming ceremony from the previous day. Sherlock zooms in on Stewart. “Here.”</p><p>Expertly pulling his signature exasperated frown-squint, Mycroft tilts his head when he sees what his brother is pointing at.</p><p>“What is he doing?” Sherlock asks him, pointing at the man’s right hand. While the Corporal stands ramrod still, his fingers twitch in small, unnatural movements.</p><p>“He’s… fidgeting?” Mycroft asks.</p><p>Sherlock looks at him in disappointed disbelief. He fast forwards the video to David’s short speech at the podium. “He doesn’t do it here. Only when he stands still next to his wife.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“And look, he does it again here, when a reporter asks him a question and his wife answers instead. It’s the same sequence. It’s a code. A message. He’s signalling somebody. A handler, a partner.”</p><p>“Sherlock—”</p><p>“I know someone you can trust, a cryptographer,” Sherlock says hurriedly, completely unfazed by Mycroft’s scepticism. “He owes me a favour and would be discreet about it.”</p><p>“Alright.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t hurt to threaten him, though. Just in case,” Sherlock adds under his breath.</p><p>“It’s what I do, brother dear,” Mycroft says over his shoulder as he turns to leave, listening as Sherlock continues his run on the track.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>The Other Woman</strong>
</p><p>John calls Sherlock.</p><p>Three times a day. The number is disconnected.</p><p>He also texts him.</p><p>At first, they’re simple questions. ‘<em>How are you?</em> <em>Are you alright? Are they treating you well?’ ‘When are you coming back to Baker Street?’.</em></p><p>He gets no response, nothing at all. He then tries a more conversational tone.</p><p>‘<em>New Indian place around the corner from your favourite place. It’s horrible. We should go.’ </em>Another time it’s ‘<em>Rosie really loves the thing with the peas, by the way, tried it for the first time today’.</em></p><p>Is he exaggerating? Possibly. But he’d learnt from the best and said best used to text and call and badger him until he’d relent, and right now John needs to be relented. Because Mycroft was right, as much as John hates to admit it. Last time Sherlock came back John welcomed him with punches and fists, overwhelmed and dazed at the sight of him.</p><p>He’d like to think Sherlock’s crass behaviour that night can be considered a mitigating factor regarding the intensity of his response. That others wouldn’t blame John for reacting the way he did, but he can’t be sure.</p><p>So maybe, just maybe, Sherlock thinks he might not be welcome again.</p><p>But he is. Despite everything—the heartbreak, the separation, the disappointment… John had missed him.</p><p>Missed him during the months of preparations before Rosie’s birth. He’d missed him over long, sleepless nights, trying to calm Rosie down during her first days at home when Mary, exhausted and asleep in the other room, couldn’t bear the sight of her after hours of wailing.</p><p>He’d missed him over dinners, their silences loud in their ears after the first few months of parenthood had passed, the realization hitting that a baby isn’t a fix-all; that now the storm of the first intense, overwhelming months had passed, their problems still existed.</p><p>There was one unnerving, unforgettable conversation with Mary a few months ago, at an ungodly time of night. Rosie had been crying for three hours straight and was finally dozing off, exhausted from effort. They both laid down on the bed, just as exhausted, staring at the ceiling.</p><p>“Oh my god,” Mary sighed. “This isn’t how I’d imagined it, at all.”</p><p>“Hmmm.”</p><p>“I mean, I’ve seen some shit in my life,” she said, her voice strangely different. It sent a shiver down his spine. “But this? This is difficult.”</p><p>John cleared his throat. “They say you have to weather the first few—”</p><p>“Do you ever regret it?” She cut him off, and he turned to look at her, his eyes wide.</p><p><em>Yes, </em>he almost said.<em> All of it. But not for the reasons you think.</em></p><p>Whatever it was that she saw in his eyes that moment he wasn’t sure, but within a split second Mary Watson was back.</p><p>“Forget it,” she sighed again and shook her head. “I’m just so bloody tired.”</p><p>When he woke the next morning he’d found Mary cooing at Rosie, cradling her tight while breastfeeding.</p><p>She’d caught him staring.</p><p>Later, she cleared her throat as she was watching the kettle, waiting for the water to boil. “I didn’t mean that, John. I love Rosie, you know that.”</p><p>It wasn’t the confession that had him worried that day. He was a GP. He’d met his share of new mothers showing signs of postnatal depression or just plain, overwhelming exhaustion. John knew better than to judge a woman after her baby had been yelling at the top of their lungs for hours on end.</p><p>No, it wasn’t her words that bothered him. It was that other woman who’d briefly shown up in their bed that night. That other persona, the result of a tired Mary’s slip up. He’d only seen her once before, in Baker Street, confessing her lies while Sherlock was slowly losing consciousness. That woman was a ruthless assassin who’d just discovered that being a mother is boring. That it’s hard. That it’s <em>not fun</em>.</p><p>He doesn’t trust <em>that</em> woman, not at all. The problem is that she’s in his house, in his bed, and with her there, John feels terribly outnumbered, exposed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Change of plans (British Army Intel Corps HQ, Bedfordshire)</strong>
</p><p>“I’m afraid I come bearing bad news, brother,” Mycroft returns four days later, and he slips into Sherlock’s small, metal-grey room, closing the door behind him.</p><p>“Of course you do,” Sherlock mumbles.</p><p>“I just got word that your asset was found dead.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“I sent one of our own to his launderette, hoping to get more information out of him. He was shot in the head, point-blank. His face was so disfigured they had to call in one of his mistresses to identify him by his scars,” Mycroft continues. “Apparently he’s been dead for quite a while when they found him.”</p><p>“How long?”</p><p>“About seventy-two hours,” Mycroft says, his eyes narrowly scanning his brother's face. “That would mean he’d been killed immediately after you spoke to him.”</p><p>“Must have,” Sherlock hums. “Someone must have followed him, knew he talked.”</p><p>“That’s one likely explanation.”</p><p>“That’s wonderful news.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“Of course.” Sherlock looks at him incredulously. “That means we’re on to something. Somebody is cleaning house.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” Mycroft says and leans back in his chair.</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock grumbles, lost in thought for a long minute. “What’s the other thing?”</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>“You have something else to tell me.”</p><p>“Yes. Your cryptographer friend was unable to help, no matter how much I threatened him.” Mycroft twists his nose in disapproval. “Quite a disappointment, considering the amount of time I had to spend in that place. His flat smelled of vinegar, it was most displeasing.”</p><p>“You do hate the leg work.”</p><p>“Yes, I do, that’s why I keep you.” Mycroft sits on the edge of the bed. “Unfortunately that leaves us with very little to base an accusation on.”</p><p>“I thought that might happen,” Sherlock sighs. “Didn’t give him enough pattern to work with. Those two video clips were short.”</p><p>“They were,” Mycroft agrees. “Though if he’s as good of a cryptographer as you claim he is, he may not have been able to decrypt the message, but he should have at least seen a pattern, wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>“Then we’ll need to get David to speak to reporters again, to see if he repeats the behaviour.”</p><p>“We can’t do that just now,” Mycroft says. “Not until he’s free to go home. Which reminds me, Major Withers caught me on my way here. He says you’ve given them everything they needed. You’re free to go.”</p><p>“I can’t <em>go</em>, Mycroft.”</p><p>“You’re no longer needed here,” Mycroft says, “but you are, in fact, needed by the Secret Service.”</p><p>“You’re kidding.” Sherlock wipes his face with a tired sigh. “I already told you everything I know.”</p><p>“No, you told the army everything you supposedly know,” Mycroft says. “Now it’s the Secret Service’s turn.”</p><p>“It’s a waste of time, Mycroft!” Sherlock moans. “Somebody has to keep an eye on Stewart.”</p><p>“An entire army base filled with intelligence officers is keeping an eye on him, Sherlock.”</p><p>“They’re all idiots,” Sherlock protests dismissively.</p><p>Mycroft takes a long pause, looking intently at the man in front of him. “Is there anything you’re not telling me, brother?”</p><p>“You’ll have to be more specific,” Sherlock says, pacing the room.</p><p>“About Corporal Stewart,” Mycroft says, “about your time together in Gaza.”</p><p>“I just spent the last forty-eight hours telling the army everything you could possibly need about this, Mycroft,” Sherlock says pointedly, “and looks like I’m due for another round.”</p><p>“This might not be such a bad thing after all, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. “The MI6 debriefing will be shorter than the ones you’ve had here. You can go back to London and strategize.”</p><p>“What do you think I’ve been doing while I’ve been locked up here?” Sherlock snorts. “I’ll need Billy.”</p><p>“Oh, must you?”</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock insists. “A car. Pocket money.”</p><p>Mycroft raises a brow.</p><p>“Can’t use one of my old boltholes,” Sherlock says, his hand on his hips as he strategizes. “There’s a place just off of Marylebone Road. I once caught a strangler there—”</p><p>“What is it with you and stranglers—”</p><p>“And eyes and ears in the Stewart residence, of course.”</p><p>“Is this going to be a long list?” Mycroft asks and sighs when he catches Sherlock’s glare. “Fine. Go on.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>John waits impatiently for the two week mark before he actually resorts to anything that isn’t just calling or texting. In fact, he gives it another extra day—waiting a full fifteen days, just in case.</p><p>He stares expectantly at the clock in his office during the last ten minutes of his shift at the surgery, holding his breath as he waits for the clock’s hands to finally reach their destination. When they do, he takes a big breath as he picks up his already-packed briefcase.</p><p>Looking at himself in the mirror before he leaves the room, he wonders what Sherlock will deduce about him when they finally meet.</p><p>He no longer wears jumpers. The material seems to irritate Rosie’s tender skin, her cheeks turning red when resting them against his chest. He now sticks with simple plaid button-downs and a warmer jacket.</p><p>He’d let his hair grow longer, at first because he’s a father of a baby who couldn’t care less about the way he looks, and kept it because… well, it looks nice. Liz told him he looks ‘<em>fierce</em>’ and that the swoop is ‘<em>very daddy</em>’ and while at first he thought the latter was a reference to his new fatherhood, Mary’s eye-roll made him look it up and blush.</p><p>Still, despite the compliment, he isn’t as young as he used to be. Fatherhood brings with it under-eye circles and softness around his midsection; Sherlock will probably find some stain John has been walking around with and hasn’t noticed all day.</p><p>John is living the least dangerous life in the suburbs and looks like shit; Sherlock has been running around like bloody 007 and came back looking ten years younger. How is that even possible?</p><p>He smiles at Liz as he waves his goodbye for the evening.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>John’s hand never even touches the street door when it opens abruptly.</p><p>“Oh, John!” Mrs. Hudson laughs delightfully at the sight of him, bringing a hand to her chest.</p><p>“Mrs. Hudson.” He kisses her cheek, his smile bright. He half-whispers conspiratorially, looking towards the stairs. “Came for a visit.”</p><p>“Visit me? How nice,” she gasps, surprised. “But, oh, I was just about to go to the shops, myself.”</p><p>“Of course, you. But also… you know.” He tilts his head towards the stairs again.</p><p>“What, Sherlock?” She frowns. “Is he back?”</p><p>“I…” John starts, his heart dropping. “Yeah. You haven’t seen him?“</p><p>“There’s been no one around.” She shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “Oh dear, you came here thinking he’d be here, didn’t you?”</p><p>He has no good response to that but to look away, disappointed.</p><p>“Come on in, then.” She pulls him into her kitchen. “Have some tea, maybe he’ll be here soon. I can go to the shops later.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t want to bother…” he starts, but she shushes him as she sits him down in a chair.</p><p>He passes the following hours being fussed over and stared at with sad eyes. He goes to the shops for her and listens for any movement in the flat upstairs as she shares some of her Bridge club gossip.</p><p>They’re working on their fourth cup of tea when his phone pings.</p><p><em><strong>Where are you? </strong></em>He sighs at Mary’s text.</p><p>It’s his turn with the baby; she’d been spending her days with her for months and their arrangement means John spends his evenings with the baby.</p><p><em><strong>On my way.</strong></em> He writes, feeling no need to disclose his real location, his real plans for the evening.</p><p>“Is that Mary?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he says as he gets up, clearing the table for her. “The baby’s waiting.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s lovely.” She pats his hand lovingly.</p><p>“Listen, Mrs. Hudson,” he says, “if you see him, will you tell him I’m looking for him?”</p><p>“I would love to, dear, but I’m going away to my niece’s tomorrow. She’s recovering from heart surgery, the poor thing,” she says and grabs him again for a motherly hug. “I’m sure he’ll turn up in no time. It’s Sherlock. He always shows up when you need him.”</p><p>
  <em>No, he doesn’t.</em>
</p><p>She sends him off with a kiss and a box of biscuits, designated to lift his mood. It doesn’t.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. First Night / The Empty House</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>[edit]<br/>Forgot to add: no offense to social workers over Alison's words - they're the true heroes!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>First Night</strong>
</p><p>The dark, cold room is lit only barely by the blue light and static audio emanating from the two computer screens. His breath a white fog, Sherlock texts Mycroft a reminder to send someone with a heating apparatus, seeing as he’s planned to spend several more nights here yet.</p><p>He sits back in his chair, waiting impatiently for some movement to be caught by one of the cameras. It’s David’s first night back home since he’d finished his debrief, and Alison was sent a car in order to bring him back in.</p><p>They haven’t spoken since landing in Germany. That was a conscious decision made by Sherlock; David is no longer the harmless soldier he’d thought him to be. He’s now an actual, possibly imminent threat and must be treated as one.</p><p>It’s disconcerting, knowing there’s a chance something is very off with David, had been very off since the day he’d met him. He used to think he could read just about anyone, but the last few years have taught him otherwise.</p><p>Some people, he’d learnt the hard way, fall neatly into an unknown blind spot. Like Irene Adler —he clearly recalls the sensation that hit him as he tried to deduce her but couldn’t. And Mary, of course, his biggest failure, a spot so blind Sherlock was left wondering if his skills were ever to be trusted again.</p><p>Mary not only fooled him that first night they met, she blinded him. And he, fuelled by the desire to pacify John’s anger, let himself be fooled so willingly, just so he could keep John by his side.</p><p>One has to be an incredibly good liar in order to disappear right in front of the world’s only consulting detective. Now, having read David’s army files, ones he wasn’t privy to before, some details finally fall into place.</p><p>So yes, it is indeed possible that is another in a long line of people who’ve managed to slip under his radar. Sherlock can’t afford to be fooled again, can’t let the repercussions unfold helplessly in front of his eyes like they did with Mary, with Magnussen, with Moriarty.</p><p>He wakes from his daydream when a noise travels through his headphones, turning to look at the screen. David and Alison step into the house slowly, hesitantly. The sounds of flashing cameras and the hum of reporters hanging outside their house disappear when Alison closes the door behind them.</p><p>She stands nervously as David follows her in, tightly clutching a bag with his few, meagre belongings, looking around him with wide eyes.</p><p>“Here,” she says softly, taking his bag from him. “Walk around a bit, I’ll make us some tea.”</p><p>David doesn’t, though. Instead, he follows her into the kitchen and watches her puttering around. When tea is finally served she takes his hand and sits him down; they stare at each other wordlessly for a long moment before she speaks.</p><p>“How does it feel?” she asks. “To be back?”</p><p>David shakes his head in overwhelmed confusion.</p><p>“I painted,” she says awkwardly, looking around at the walls.</p><p>“It looks nice. Nice colour.” He nods.</p><p>“I... I’m a teacher now.”</p><p>“Really? That’s wonderful.” She nods in agreement, tears forming in her eyes. “What do you teach?”</p><p>“English Literature.”</p><p>“Of course,” he says and reaches for her hand. “You were always... what happened to social work?”</p><p>“Was boring.” She smiles nervously, and the humour finally breaks the ice. David chuckles and looks around, taking a breath before speaking again.</p><p>“So you’ve never…” He clears his throat. “You’ve never moved, or…?”</p><p>“I was waiting… I wanted you to come home to…”</p><p>“I wanted to come home, too.” David sniffs and looks around the room again, his form stiff. He stands and walks towards the photos hanging on the wall. “That’s all I could think about all these years. I used to hear your voice, you know.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“I used to hear your voice when things got really…” he turns around again, staring into thin air. “I’d close my eyes and remember what you sounded like in the mornings. Those cold winter mornings right after the wedding, do you remember?”</p><p>“Yes,” Alison sniffs, finally bursting into tears.</p><p>“It’s so strange, Al,” David’s voice goes cold. “Everything looks exactly the same but it’s all so… different.”</p><p>A sensation creeps down Sherlock’s spine, one so unfamiliar he cannot put a name to it. His mind inadvertently goes back to the days after his return from his own supposed death; to stepping back into London, discovering time hadn’t stood still. That the city he loves moved on without him. That John had done just the same.</p><p>The worst part of it all was the insufferable little changes that took place while he was gone. From the skull that Mrs. Hudson moved an inch to the left, to the new people who moved into the flat across from him on Baker Street, to a wholly different John. For this new John, nothing Sherlock said was the right thing. The things that used to make John laugh before he’d left, suddenly made him angry and spiteful.</p><p>John had agreed to forgive him but was still visibly reeling inside, twisted and coiled somewhere below the surface.</p><p>He’d done everything he could think of to acquiesce him; stole him away for cases, married him off, smiled brightly at the woman who planted herself tightly into their life. It was all working out for the best, really. Until… well.</p><p>Things never work out for him, do they?</p><p>Alison takes a big, grounding breath, determined to pull David out of his reverie and doing much the same for Sherlock. “Are you hungry?” she asks and David shakes his head. “How about a shower?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he sighs, “yeah.”</p><p>They go up to the master bedroom, their images moving from one screen to another.</p><p>“Here’s a towel. There are toiletries inside. And I bought you some new clothes, so why don’t you take this off—”</p><p>“Al—” David stops her when she starts to remove his vest, grabbing her arm tightly.</p><p>“What?” She smiles and pulls the vest further up, revealing his torso. “You can’t shower with your kit—”</p><p>David hugs his midsection instinctively; Sherlock blinks helplessly for the shortest moment, David’s vulnerability hitting him unexpectedly when the realization comes.</p><p>
  <em>The scars.</em>
</p><p>“Let me—” She lifts her eyes to look at him, then turns him around to look at his scarred back. “Oh my G—”</p><p>“It’s… it's not as bad as…” David starts, presumably hoping to diminish the ugliness of the meaning of these scars, the heartbreaking truth they reveal. “<em>Fuck</em>.” He says instead, folding Alison into his arms.</p><p>
  <em>“There you are,” he heard John saying as he woke from another fitful, dreamless sleep. A medicated sleep, he remembered blessedly. Pain medication, administered straight into his vein. Legitimate only when you’re recovering from a bullet wound, it would seem.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He turned his head and saw John in a chair by the bed, his left hand gently touching Sherlock’s forearm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’ve been waking more often today. That’s good,” John said. “Are you feeling better?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What do you think?” he asked flatly. He opened his eyes again, expecting to find John’s devious smile in return. Instead, he’d found a grimace; one Sherlock couldn’t really account for. What could he have possibly done wrong since getting hospitalized? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ve been getting questions from the staff,” John said coolly.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That’s not very reassuring, is it?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“About your back.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What about it?” Sherlock closed his eyes and squirmed, trying to relieve the pain in his shoulders.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“The scars, Sherlock.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of course, he froze in realization. Of course John saw them. He’d hidden them so well so far. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Damn Mary.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“They weren’t there before you jumped,” John said. “I should know. You used to walk around the flat half naked most of the time.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock sighed, turning his head towards the ceiling.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“They asked if they should involve the police. They think you’re being abused.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock snorted. “Talk to Mycroft. He’ll take care of it.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That’s not the point, Sherlock,” John said, his tone changing with that distinct inflection he uses when he thinks Sherlock is being knowingly obtuse. “Why didn’t you say anything?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock sent his hand towards the PCA, hoping to be rescued by another dose of painkillers. John reached out and grabbed his hand, stopping him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sherlock?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m tired, John.” He said. “I don’t remember much of it, anyway. I don’t…” He opened his eyes to find John shooting daggers at him, his lips pursed. “Please. Can we not talk about this right now?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>John exhaled loudly, his entire body radiating his inner conflict. Eventually, the good doctor won the argument in his head, clearly, because he nodded, though his displeasure was clear.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Alright,” he relented with a sigh, letting go of Sherlock’s hand. “But this isn’t over, not by a long shot.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Of course,” Sherlock croaked in pain. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of course, they never discussed it again. John had forgotten all about it once he discovered the truth about Mary. There were more important things to deal with, to discuss. His old scars were exactly as the tin suggests: old, useless, non-consequential.</em>
</p><p>Sherlock wakes from the memory to the sound of a sniffling Alison. They’re still standing there, hugging and whispering to each other.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she grabs David’s head between her hands, kissing his forehead.</p><p>Sherlock looks away, biting his lips at the sight of their intimate moment. Eventually, David moves and heads for the shower.</p>
<hr/><p>Sherlock spends the rest of the night watching David and Alison in their bedroom; she falls asleep rather quickly while David stares at the ceiling, unmoving and clutching the duvet nervously.</p><p>Shortly before midnight, a slight sound of fabrics rustling catches Sherlock’s attention. David turns to look at the clock on the bedside table. He gets up and grabs a towel from the shower.</p><p>Confused, Sherlock’s eyes move from one screen to another as David moves around the house, taking the stairs up to the last floor. He closes the door softly behind him.</p><p>Trying this way and that, browsing through the video streams coming from inside the house, he stops dead angrily when he realizes what’s wrong. He picks his phone up and dials the only number the phone had been used for so far.</p><p>“The attic, Mycroft!” Sherlock barks at his brother over the phone. “You didn’t install a camera in the attic, and he’s up there now doing God knows what!”</p><p>Not bothering to wait for Mycroft’s response, Sherlock hangs up and paces impatiently around the room until finally, David steps back out and walks quietly back into the bedroom.</p>
<hr/><p>“<em>NO!</em>” David shoots up in bed as he wakes from a nightmare, something Sherlock had witnessed himself many times in Gaza. David’s eyes still seem closed, and he holds onto Alison’s forearm.</p><p>“David?” Alison’s urging him, pulling her forearm away with a struggle. “David?” She pats his back gently as he gains consciousness, finally aware of his surroundings.</p><p>“<em>Oh,</em>” he says with a loud exhalation when he finally gets his bearing, breathing loudly.</p><p>“It’s alright. They said this might happen,” she says softly, kissing his shoulder. “It was just a dream. You’re alright.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>The Empty House</strong>
</p><p>John tries Baker Street again the next day, early before work. He comes back again in the evening, right after work. Mrs. Hudson is indeed away, so he uses his key, still there on his keychain just like the key to the house he shares with Mary. He takes the stairs and steps inside 221B, scanning it intently for any changes, any clues.</p><p><em>When was the last time I was here?</em> His forehead creases.</p><p><em>Christmas Day.</em> Right before they left for Sherlock’s parents’ house, right before things had gone to hell yet again.</p><p>The flat looks as if Sherlock had left for a short trip to Barts not an hour ago. The only sign the man hadn’t really been here recently is a kitchen table devoid of an ongoing experiment.</p><p>He walks around the sitting room, looking out the window, wiping dust from the window sill.</p><p>Sighing at the sight of a clearly empty street and no sign of Sherlock, he sits in his own chair, taking a big breath as he pulls his phone out. He calls Sherlock once again. The line is unreachable, just like it had been over the last few weeks. He settles back in the chair, preparing for an evening of <em>waiting</em>.</p><p>Sherlock never shows up.</p><p>He crawls into bed around 11pm, ignoring Mary’s piercing glare.</p>
<hr/><p>Rosie is teething for the first time. She’s absolutely miserable, as are her parents. They tried everything in the books: teething toys, gum rubbing, over-the-counter medication. His heart goes out to her as she wails in his ears, squirming in discontent.</p><p>“Maybe…” Mary sighs as she rocks the little girl back and forth, trying to calm her down.”Maybe take her for a drive?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Something Jane said,” Mary says, “hers would only calm down in the car.”</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“I’d do it myself if I weren’t so bloody tired,” she grumbles, closing her eyes in frustration.</p><p>“What the hell,” he shrugs and goes searching for his keys. “Worth a try.”</p>
<hr/><p>They drive slowly around the neighbourhood but that doesn’t seem to do the trick. Lost in thought, he takes a right turn into the A40 and the higher speed finally brings some peace. She calms down, grunting quietly. The road is empty, and so he drives, his head devoid of thoughts now that the soundtrack of the car doesn’t consist of guttural baby wails.</p><p>She’s asleep by the time he passes through Westbourne Green. It’s then that he realizes where he’s been driving; he’s minutes away from Baker Street.</p><p>He parks the car on the other side of the road from the flat, looking up to the windows of the second floor. The building is pitch black; if Sherlock had been in John would have seen some movement or a distant light coming from the kitchen or the fireplace.</p><p>He sighs anxiously, his stomach heavy as a rock.</p><p>
  <em>Where is he?</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Rosie is miserable still the next night and the night after that. Driving to Baker Street seems to be a magic cure; it keeps Rosie from crying and helps her dad feel as though he’s not completely useless. She falls asleep, exhausted, by the time they reach 221B. It stands dark and lonely, Mrs. Hudson’s absence making the building feel that much emptier.</p><p>On the third night, John exhales loudly as he parks the car. He stares unseeing out the window, his fingers aching from holding onto the wheel too tightly.</p><p>He’s not an idiot; he can put two and two together. Mycroft’s words at the surgery combined with Sherlock’s complete absence from his own home is a message to John.</p><p><em>He’s avoiding me</em>, he finally admits to himself, his heart in his throat. For some reason, one that maybe is supposed to be very clear to him but isn’t, he’d done something wrong and now Sherlock is taking every measure possible to avoid him.</p><p><em>Perhaps he’d thought himself overqualified to be nothing more than a glorified wedding planner,</em> John remembers Mycroft’s biting words. Is that what this is all about? His wedding? Still, now, after everything they’ve been through since?</p><p>He shakes his head at the sheer idiocy of it all. <em>Who even asked you to plan that bloody wedding</em>, he’d like to tell Sherlock, the memories of that time coming back to him. John had hated it all. Months on end of sitting in the same room with Mary and Sherlock, buzzing around like over excited bees discussing colours and flower arrangements and fabrics. He’d sit there like a grumpy grandfather, searching for new cases to pique Sherlock’s interest.</p><p>At first, he thought it was discomfort over the banality of it all—all the horrid details that make for wedding planning. It took him months to realize his discomfort was over the other two’s perfect harmony. There was a point where he couldn’t lie to himself anymore.</p><p>He’d clung to Mary when Sherlock had just returned, out of sheer defiance over Sherlock’s cruel and careless treatment, but once he forgave him—really forgave him, he’d sit there looking between the two of them, not entirely sure who was person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.</p><p>He would have made a choice if he’d had to. If Sherlock had asked, John would have made his choice in less than a heartbeat. But he didn’t. Sherlock wasn’t like that. Despite John’s aching heart, for years on end—Sherlock doesn’t do <em>that</em>, is what he’d told himself before the wedding. There was Irene Adler, but god help him, John still wasn’t sure what exactly happened there. Sherlock seemed to be pining, but gave no real answers, and after she died her name never came up again.</p><p>So he married Mary. Yes, it seems undignified now, but he did.</p><p>When he got married he was sure that—as always—despite the turbulence in his heart, despite Sherlock’s pull on him, he’d learn to accept that Sherlock only ever wanted his friendship. For a short few weeks it seemed like, incredulously, John might actually get to have the best of both worlds for once in his lifetime.</p><p>He could have lived with that. He would have.</p><p>And then there was Janine. If there was ever any ambiguity, any hope, that he and Sherlock stood any chance, seeing Janine coming out of Sherlock’s bedroom was really all the answer he ever needed about Sherlock’s sexuality. But that wasn’t the worst of it, was it? Because the worst part was Sherlock’s harsh, reckless treatment of Janine. The words ‘chemical defect’ will forever have been one John’s worst moments, stealing all the oxygen out of John’s lungs.</p><p>Until Mary had gone and shot Sherlock.</p><p>Everything that had happened since then was a swirling mix of events he can barely even recall, and now here is, sitting in front of Sherlock’s flat and waiting for him to come back. Even if that means that Sherlock would only rebuff him again.</p><p>It doesn’t matter. He’ll take all the rejection Sherlock has to offer as long he lets him in his life. It’s pathetic, but unlike Mary, Sherlock was honest from their first evening together; <em>married to his work</em>. John could have stepped away right then and there, but he didn’t. He can’t blame Sherlock for not feeling the same; that’s not how love works.</p><p>John looks at the building on the other side of the road one last time and, with a sigh, turns the key in the ignition hole. Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, he catches a slight movement and his heart bounces with excitement, adrenaline rushing through his veins.</p><p>He turns his head quickly to see a figure bouncing over the fence into Mrs. Hudson’s ground floor backyard.</p><p>He squints, trying to get a better look. Whomever it was, it’s not Sherlock, John is sure. Wrong height, wrong build.</p><p><em>Someone is breaking in. </em>His body freezes in realization. He takes his phone and is about to call Mycroft when he notices a small flicker of light coming from inside 221B. It appears to be coming from… from his old room, he realizes. Up the stairs, to the left.</p><p>He swallows when he finally manages to place a call to Mycroft, but the man doesn’t answer. He tries again and again but to no avail.</p><p>By the time he hangs up the light in the flat is gone. He was too preoccupied with his phone to notice whether the person who sneaked inside somehow managed to sneak outside.</p><p>He can’t walk in there. He has a baby in the car, and he can’t leave her alone - let alone take her inside. Whatever’s going on in there, he’d like to have his gun with him.</p><p>He looks in his mirror to find a peaceful Rosie, fast asleep.</p><p>There’s nothing for it tonight.</p>
<hr/><p>The next night finds him sitting in his car in front of Baker Street around midnight. He’d told Mary he’s meeting up with Mike for a pint, which he did. He didn’t lie. He did excuse himself early while with Mike, though, feigning an upset stomach. Now here he is, feeling like a bloody stalker.</p><p>Reaching for the gun in his jeans he adjusts it as he steps out of the car and uses his key to get into the flat.</p><p>He takes the steps slowly, not turning the light on as he enters. The windows are closed, which makes the silence in the flat even more noticeable against the sound of his own pulse in his ears. He settles in the sitting room, grabbing a chair from the table near the window. He places it squarely in front of the door to the sitting room, his gun in his hand.</p><p>And then he waits.</p><p>And waits, and waits.</p><p>An hour and forty-five minutes later he finally hears it. A creak of a door downstairs, hurried footsteps on the stairs. John stands from the chair and raises his gun.</p><p>A man stops in his tracks at the sight of him, noticing him despite the darkness in the room.</p><p>“Oi!” The man calls and raises his hands in the air.</p><p>“Who are you?” John barks back.</p><p>“Who’re <em>you</em>?”</p><p>John’s eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, finally notice a bit more. It’s a homeless man; his clothes smelly and rumpled, his face long since shaved.</p><p>“I’m the bloke holding you at gunpoint, so why don’t you answer me first?” John says, stepping forward in defiance to prove his point.</p><p>“I-” the man stutters, “name’s Smithy.”</p><p>“And what are you doing breaking in here, Smithy?”</p><p>“That tall lad said I could stay here if I’m willing to help him as long as the missus downstairs is away. Says no one’s using this place and I can sleep in that room upstairs.”</p><p>“‘That tall lad’? You mean Sherlock?”</p><p>“I s’pose.” The man shrugs.</p><p>“Then why are you sneaking in like a thief?” John asks, “Where’s your key?”</p><p>“He said no one can see me. Said the back door should be easy to open.”</p><p>“Where is he?” John asks and sighs in frustration when the man shakes his head, not understanding. “The tall man who said you can sleep here.”</p><p>“’M not supposed to say. “</p><p>John grinds his teeth in frustration. “Is the gun not convincing enough for you?”</p><p>“He really said I’m not supposed to say.”</p><p>“Listen, I’m a friend of his, alright? I’m worried about him. There’s fifty quid in it for you if you tell me where he is. Then you can sleep in peace for as long as you’d like.”</p><p>“He seems alright to me. Maybe he just doesn’t want to see you or somethin’, on account of waving a gun in his flat and whatnot.”</p><p>“Fine,” John sighs. “A hundred, and I’ll tell you where he keeps the good liquor.”</p><p>“Hundred and fifty.”</p><p>“Alright. A hundred and fifty it is,” John says and nods, lowering his gun. “Let’s go.”</p><p>“Go where?”</p><p>“To Sherlock,” he signals with his chin, gesturing at the door. “After you.”</p><p>The man rolls his eyes. “‘Ta.”</p><p>Finally acquiescing, the man turns around without a word and John sighs in hopeful relief, following him as he steps out the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Bolthole / Soldiers / Recruitment</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some more visual aid - <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/fd46f6e767acf0196c47cb19d0ee3b38/6b3390e3d9964fb9-48/s1280x1920/4f30589d3777e5e32e21a7b3fe25e17d2333e3e4.jpg">this is what Sherlock looks</a> like (for now) in the story.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Bolthole</strong>
</p><p>John and Smithy walk silently together, not exchanging a word. The November night is freezing cold, and John is somewhat relieved knowing the man at least has a warm place to sleep tonight—albeit his old room at Baker Street, offered up unceremoniously to a relative stranger by Sherlock.</p><p>Smithy guides John around small streets and alleys off of Marylebone Road for a full fifteen minutes before sneaking down into an unused car park. John recognizes the building—it’s an old, abandoned hotel. The area surrounding the building is filled with construction equipment and John imagines the entire block is due for demolition in favour of some posh new residential buildings.</p><p>He didn’t know what to expect when he started following Smithy around but now, he realizes, he's actually relieved. In fact, in a way, this is encouraging. He’s probably being taken to one of Sherlock’s boltholes.</p><p>He follows the man up an abandoned service staircase. On the third floor the man enters a number into a keypad (John takes note of the code; 5981) and opens the door to a big, semi-dark room. In its better days, before the hotel was abandoned, this was probably a suite, serving a whole family.</p><p>“Right,” John says, looking around the hall. “When was the last time you saw him?”</p><p>“‘Round noon,” the man says, holding his hand out in expectation. “Said he wasn’ coming back ‘ere tonight, so I wouldn’t ‘old my breath.”</p><p>John’s brain finally picks up on the hint. He pulls his wallet out, grabbing the notes and handing them to the man.</p><p>“Top shelf on the right, behind the pots and strainers,” John says, staying true to his promise regarding the good liquor. “There’s some gin. Maybe a whisky too.”</p><p>The man nods and leaves, pocketing the wad of notes quickly inside his tattered coat.</p><p>John surveys the room. If Sherlock had been here at all, there’s no sign of him. Confused, John moves in to look further.</p><p>At the centre of the room stands a large desk with two computers screens, both powered off. There’s a pair of large headsets on the table, but they’re disconnected. There’s not a laptop in sight, which is weird considering the number of screens in the room. Whatever it is that Sherlock is working on, John can’t find a clue for right now.</p><p>He peeks his head around the bedroom—empty, not even a bed. The bathroom is bare and unused. He goes back to the sitting room, on the left finding an unused kitchenette. When he looks to his right his eyes finally rest on a large folding bed. Beneath the bed he spots a black, unassuming duffle bag.</p><p>It’s when he looks to his left that his breath catches. What he finds on the wall is clearly a sign of <em>Sherlock</em>.</p><p>An evidence wall. Notes, pieces of paper, cut-outs of newspaper articles. John had seen Sherlock gather evidence on a wall, just like that, a million times over. This is his work. The notes written in Sherlock’s handwriting aren’t readable—it’s code. They’re only for Sherlock to understand.</p><p>But there’s one photo, and one photo only—that of David Stewart, the POW Sherlock had helped rescue.</p><p>He feels dizzy, unsure whether it’s of a sense of relief or foreboding. He knows where to find Sherlock now. He'd been here, most likely even come back here, and Mycroft had been telling the truth; Sherlock’s work involving Corporal Stewart is indeed not over.</p><p>But why hide? Why the coded messages? Why would he ignore John’s calls and messages? Surely he knows how desperately he’d been trying to contact him.</p><p>Smithy said Sherlock wouldn’t be coming back for the night, but he 's not leaving. He’s finally here, and he’d rather not miss a chance to see him. For all he knows Sherlock could be changing boltholes every other day. </p><p>He rubs his hands in an instinctive attempt to warm up, blessedly finding a cosy looking blanket on the folding bed. He sits on it, his back to the wall, listening for footsteps.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>His alarm clock wakes him at 05:30. He blinks in confusion, disoriented in an unknown room. An empty room.</p><p>He’s alone. Sherlock never came.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>His heart heavy with disappointment, he walks quietly into his own house an hour later, the sun not entirely up yet, the early morning air cold. He takes his shoes off when he enters, hoping to avoid Mary’s questioning eyes.</p><p>He fails. She’s already up, warming Rosie’s bottle; she turns to look at him as he passes by the kitchen then looks away, her lips pursed.</p><p>“Find him, did you?” she asks, her tone accusatory. His hand, reaching for the coat rack, falters for a millisecond with the sharp reminder that she never misses a thing.</p><p>“No,” he says and hangs his jacket, refusing to take the bait.</p><p>“You’ve been out all night.”</p><p>“I need to know he’s alright.”</p><p>“You should take the hint,” she says, hitting right where she knows it’ll hurt. “When will you learn?”</p><p>“When will <em>you</em>?” he calls over his shoulder, satisfied when he sees a small flinch on her impeccably inscrutable face.</p><p>She turns back to the kitchen, admitting defeat, as he runs upstairs for a quick pre-work shower.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Soldiers (MI6 archives, Vauxhall Cross, London)</strong>
</p><p>Sherlock’s phone pings, loud in the empty room, waking him from an unexpected doze that took over after hours on end of trudging through document after document. He’d been spending his days here, going over every piece of information available to MI6 regarding the UK’s involvement in Afghanistan, starting from the period of David’s tours and onwards.</p><p>He needs every bit of data he can find about David, his section, the compound he was abducted from, his abductors, and of course—Abu Nazir.</p><p>Powerful as Mycroft may be, there are still limits to his influence, and he’d been unable to gain Sherlock access to this bottomless fountain of information from outside the agency’s headquarters. Under the guise of writing a detailed report of his time searching for David’s whereabouts, he has a chance to look into cracks and inconsistencies in the POW’s stories.</p><p>It’s a rabbit hole even he, a man who chose to spend his life chasing criminals in the deepest, darkest recesses of London, wishes he’d never gone down.</p><p>The overwhelming collection of evidence: interviews, videos, autopsy reports, photographs—are proof of the atrocities caused to every side involved in that war-torn region. It leaves him wondering how humanity had ever got as far as it did; how creatures benevolent enough to write poetry, plant a flower, are the same creatures who use drones to demolish entire villages or slash the throats of one of their own kind while broadcasting it all over the ether.</p><p>Sherlock was never one to stand in defence of humankind, and the sights in front of him justify that.</p><p>But there’s nothing for it. He has to delve into these documents if he wishes to understand David. He knows what he knows; David was candid in their time together at Gaza, and during some of those long, sleepless nights at that safehouse David had managed to coax some of Sherlock’s own secrets. David didn’t know his real name, his real occupation—but he knew well enough to recognize a damaged soul, not least in thanks to the scars on Sherlock’s own body.</p><p>The problem is it’s not only David that Sherlock is getting a glimpse into going through this trove of documents.</p><p><em>John</em>.</p><p>Every photograph, every video, puts new colours into the consequences that made the man he had met in the lab all those years ago. When he’d first laid eyes on him, the army/doctor combination was a label—an interesting tidbit—a small, albeit impressive, piece of the infinite puzzle that made John Watson unique.</p><p>Sherlock, in his vanity, never even asked what John had gone through in Afghanistan. John, in his John-ness, never disclosed anything. The brave war hero faded into the wall for the benefit of his bungling self. He’d just let Sherlock grab all the attention, all the praise, while keeping his secrets to himself.</p><p>That was them, wasn’t it? Who they were. Two vertical lines, travelling opposite to one another, never leaving each other’s side, but fated to never meet.</p><p>He looks at the phone and scans his incoming messages—there’s one waiting from Wiggins. The man has been doing a bang up job watching David through the security cameras in his house while Sherlock is away from his bolthole. Sure, Mycroft has a couple of men of his own, watching the same videos off the book, but Wiggins is different—he’s actually smart. He also doesn’t ask any questions and leaves Sherlock alone when it’s obvious it’s what Sherlock needs.</p><p><em><strong>The corporal just asked the missus for money before she left for the doctor’s</strong></em>, Wiggins relays in a text from the bolthole.</p><p>Sherlock dials and waits for Wiggins to pick up.</p><p>“Money?” he says, sparing on the niceties. “Did he say what for?”</p><p>“Not really.”</p><p>“Did she give him any?”</p><p>“Gave him a credit card.”</p><p>“Excellent.” Sherlock wipes his face with a tired sigh. “That’s great.”</p><p>“If you say so.”</p><p>“Where’s he now?”</p><p>“Disappeared some place. Somewhere in the house.”</p><p>“The attic?”</p><p>“‘Think so.”</p><p>Sherlock sighs with frustration. Of course, he won’t have eyes on the one room that seems to be actually important.</p><p>“What else has he been doing since waking up?”</p><p>“Nothin’, really,” Wiggins grumbles. “He sits in the corner of the bedroom, staring at the wall or watches the reporters through the window.”</p><p>Reporters have been hounding the house 24/7 since the news about David’s return broke out. They’re parked outside waiting for any sighting of David or visitors to visit the couple. No one’s been coming over; Henry Mason, Alison’s lover, seems to be taking great lengths not to attract any attention to their relationship until Alison decides to break the news to David. A couple of army officials paid their respects in short visits, offering their help, as did the couple’s old priest from Glasgow.</p><p>David had been refusing to exchange one word with any of the reporters, adamant he had absolutely nothing to tell them. Alison had been ignoring the many phone calls, begging for that coveted first exclusive interview.</p><p>“Alright,” Sherlock says. “Tell me if he leaves the house at any point.”</p><p>“Will do, guv.”</p><p>Sherlock hangs up without a word. Aside from his tendency to disappear into the attic, David’s been doing nothing suspicious. No phone calls, no unexplained outings. <em>A credit card is good, though,</em> he thinks. <em>Makes it easier to track him.</em></p><p>His phone pings again.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>The good doctor discovered your little hideout last night. MH</strong> </em>
</p><p>Sherlock scowls and closes his eyes in frustration, glimmers of panic and excitement taking residence in his belly at the same time.</p><p>
  <strong>Well then, it’s not a very good hideout. -SH</strong>
</p><p>His resolve had become so strong while he was away. He’d managed, with superhuman determination, to accept that John would no longer be in his life in any capacity, no matter what. It had cost him his sanity, his identity, and in a number of reckless moments, nearly his own life. If John is looking for him, he would find him.</p><p>One part of him is proud, even comforted by the knowledge that John’s angry determination is still alive and kicking. It’s what might happen once they meet that Sherlock is worried about; it’s guaranteed to destroy everything he’d worked for.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>He’s rather adamant about seeing you. Used his gun to threaten your errand boy. MH</strong> </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>You were supposed to take care of this. -SH</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I have a fetching idea, in fact. Perhaps we can put his eagerness to good use. MH</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Absolutely not. -SH</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>I’m sending a car. Be ready in 30 minutes. MH</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>No. -SH</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>Anthea is on her way, see you soon. MH</em> </strong>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Recruitment</strong>
</p><p>Lost in thought, John walks with his hands in his pockets to the sandwich shop around the corner for a quick lunch. His neck creaks from spending the night sitting up against the wall at Sherlock’s bolthole, waiting for the man to show up.</p><p>He’s a right mess today; barely had time for a shower and a shave, didn’t even make himself a proper lunch to take with him, and he’s tired and worried.</p><p>He takes the corner and stops dead in his tracks when he notices a big black car parked in front of the restaurant he was just about to step into. Next to the car stands Anthea, busy tapping away on her phone.</p><p>He frowns with a sigh; he’s being summoned again, and he’s not sure he’s in the mood for it. He’s halfway through an internal tirade, his anger flaring with righteous indignation, when she raises her eyes and points at the back seat.</p><p>“Chicken and avocado on rye with mayonnaise and relish,” she says impassively. He looks inside, finding a rather sad looking sandwich there. “You can eat on your way there.”</p><p>He closes his eyes in frustration, knowing the battle had been lost before it even began.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><em>Fine</em>, he works himself up as they walk down the halls leading to Mycroft’s office. He sees the man standing by the door to his office, waiting for him. <em>If I’m being summoned I might as well put it to good use. Get that arse to answer some questions while we’re at it.</em></p><p>He stares angrily at Mycroft, holding off on his words until he’s in the office. “You’ve got a lot of nerve—”</p><p>“John.”</p><p>He freezes when he recognizes that voice. Turning around, he sees Sherlock leaning against Mycroft’s desk, his arms crossed.</p><p>It’s definitely Sherlock—who else could it be? But everything about him is just plain foreign. He’d thought he’d seen Sherlock in every condition possible during their time as flatmates; anxious, sleepy, letting his hair grow long, cutting his curls too short. In sleepwear and robes and towels and his tailored suits. But never this.</p><p>Sherlock looks… casual.</p><p>A short-sleeved, grey hoodie and a black pair of denims. His hair is ginger and short—the curls almost gone, his eyebrows match the colour of his hair.</p><p>“Sherlock?” John swallows as Sherlock nods silently back.</p><p>“Do sit down, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says as he sits in his own chair.</p><p>“No, thank you. I’m alright,” John says, bracing himself for whatever it is he knows is coming. Things are never good when he’s called into Mycroft’s office; they’re not here for tea and scones.</p><p>“As you wish,” Mycroft says and sits regally in his own chair. “As you can see, my brother is alive and well. I thought you might prefer to witness it yourself, seeing as you felt the need to rattle your gun around London in your search for him.”</p><p>John clenches his hands, his fury building up again. “Not so sure about that,” he says and stares at Sherlock.</p><p>“Pardon?” Mycroft blinks in surprise.</p><p>“Not so sure about the ‘doing well’ part,” he says and juts his chin at the detective. “Did he lose the ability to speak for himself?”</p><p>“I did not,” Sherlock’s voice is quiet and reserved. “I was asked to be here, but I can’t say I condone what Mycroft is about to propose. He insists on it, though.”</p><p>“What is it, then?”</p><p>“As I told you a few weeks ago at your surgery, John, Sherlock had a vital part in Corporal Stewart’s rescue, retrieval, and eventual homecoming,” Mycroft says. “Something I hadn’t told you when I met you was that after the rescue operation, Sherlock spent two months in solitary with the Corporal in a Gaza safehouse. It took us a long time to work out the details of a safe retrieval operation of the two of them.”</p><p>“Alright,” John says, crossing his arms. He feels some tension that has been building inside him for weeks slightly loosening, not that he’s actually given any information to work with.</p><p>“The Corporal spent weeks since his return in debriefings with the Intel Corps. However, we have a reason to suspect that he didn’t give us the full story. Some details don’t add up.”</p><p>“Right,” John nods. “So what’s the problem? Bring him in for more questioning. He’s still a soldier.”</p><p>“We’re worried that the information he’s potentially holding might be sensitive.”</p><p>“Too sensitive for the army?” John frowns. “Isn’t that exactly what they’re for?”</p><p>Mycroft fixes John with a penetrating stare, apparently upset at John questioning his judgement. “I suggested that Sherlock utilize the information he’d acquired while living with the Corporal in close quarters to gather some more data, unofficially.”</p><p>“What sort of information?”</p><p>“Operational information,” Mycroft clarifies. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say more.”</p><p>John frowns again and looks at Sherlock, trying to read his expression. His face is unreadable.</p><p>“Alright. But why have you been ignoring me?” He asks Sherlock. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”</p><p>“This is an undercover assignment, and an unofficial one at that,” Mycroft says pointedly. “When was the last time you checked your blog, Dr. Watson?”</p><p>“I don’t know, a few weeks.”</p><p>“It’s no longer there. Neither is my brother’s website,” Mycroft continues. “The Corporal went missing in 2006. He’s not familiar with Sherlock Holmes like the rest of this country is. As far as the Corporal knows, the man who’d spent those months in Gaza with him is Peter Knight, a freelance intelligence agent who just happened to be in the region when he was found. Sherlock Holmes does not exist, and will not exist again, until we feel we’re in the clear. It means that he won’t be taking new cases, won’t move back into Baker Street, won’t appear in your creative little blog posts until further notice.”</p><p>“Are you serious?”</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock finally speaks. “There’s a lot on the line here, John. Both for myself and for Mycroft.”</p><p>“Christ,” he mumbles, Mary’s words from the other night coming back to him. “What did you do?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I don’t like any of this. This is bad,” he starts and points at Sherlock. “You going off the grid like that, and you,” he points at Mycroft, “you, running him unofficially. I’ve seen this before. You cocked something up, or you’re about to.”</p><p>“No, we did not, and no, we are not about to. No need to be crass, Dr. Watson. As I said, Sherlock has done fantastic work.” Mycroft winces. “We are simply trying to get a hold on an unforeseen situation, and it appears that we could use your help.”</p><p>“Mine?” John’s head whips around, surprised.</p><p>“Yes, yours,” Mycroft says, but is interrupted by Sherlock clearing his throat. “Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure about getting you involved in this, but I think your army experience can prove quite valuable.”</p><p>“Involved in what?”</p><p>“Stewart’s still in shock,” Mycroft explains. “He had some acclimation sessions when he returned but those are generally less than helpful, as I’m sure you know from personal experience.”</p><p>“You could say that.”</p><p>“Things have changed while he was away. His friends have moved on. His wife, still unbeknownst to him, is involved with another man,” Mycroft continues and John’s heart twists in sympathy. “We need to get more information out of him, and someone like you might get him to talk. You served in the same region, you were severely wounded and discharged. You’re his senior in rank, which might draw some respect.”</p><p>“Go on.”</p><p>“We’d like you to connect with him, listen to him. Get him to speak about his time in Afghanistan leading to his kidnapping, or even better, about his time in captivity,” Mycroft says.</p><p>“Again, what is it exactly that you’re trying to get out of him?” John asks, still not following.</p><p>“We’ll know when we hear it,” Mycroft responds. “Your job will be to gain his trust, get him to open up, talk about things he may have chosen not to disclose to Sherlock or his investigators upon his return.”</p><p>“That’s it?” John asks. “Just talk to him?”</p><p>“Will you do it?” Mycroft asks.</p><p>“So you,” he turns to Mycroft, “want my help on something without telling me what it’s about while you,” he turns back to Sherlock, “don’t want me on this case at all?”</p><p>Mycroft’s nonchalant, barely noticeable smirk is an open invitation for a sucker punch. It’s all John can do not to take him up on it.</p><p>“That’s ridiculous,” John continues. “Why did you even call me here?”</p><p>“I suspect one of my colleagues might be a mole, and I trust you well enough not to betray my brother and I,” Mycroft says. “Is that a good enough reason for you?”</p><p>He looks between Sherlock and Mycroft, suspicious. These two are clearly playing with fire, and John had seen the business end of the results of their little games far too many times. He shouldn’t enable this. He shouldn’t let Mycroft run Sherlock like this.</p><p><em>This is wrong</em>, he knows. <em>It’ll end badly.</em></p><p>“Yeah, alright,” he nods. He’ll do it, because it’s Sherlock. Because he needs Sherlock and if that’s the way to get him back, then so be it. “I’ll do it.”</p><p>“Wonderful,” Mycroft says and heads for the door, opening it. “Anthea will reach out with further details over the next few days.”</p><p>“Excuse me?” he asks, prompting Mycroft to look back at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p>John, in turn, looks at Sherlock.</p><p>“That’s it?” he asks him and smiles bitterly. “That’s all I get? You’ve been gone for nearly a year, Sherlock. How about ‘hello’?”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes search the floor for something invisible.</p><p>“<em>Sherlock?</em>”</p><p>“Excuse me, I’m being summoned.” Mycroft clears his throat as he steps out, closing the door behind him.</p><p>John sighs, shuffling his legs in an attempt to get rid of his angry posture. “Can we go somewhere? Just you and I, so we can talk properly?”</p><p>“We can’t be seen together, John. Not in public,” Sherlock says. “Especially now that you’ve agreed to help. You don’t have to do that, by the way. This was Mycroft’s idea.”</p><p>“I want to,” John says. “I want to help you, Sherlock.”</p><p>Sherlock looks away wordlessly.</p><p>“What’s going on here, removing all traces of Sherlock Holmes? Living in that dump?” he pushes. “Are you in trouble?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Should I be worried?”</p><p>“No, of course not.”</p><p>“Well, chance would be a fine thing,” John huffs, frustrated. “I already am.”</p><p>“It’s a case, John,” Sherlock says, “I’ve solved hundreds of cases and I’ll solve this one too, I just need to do it differently this time.”</p><p>“Sherlock—”</p><p>“People’s lives are on the line—”</p><p>“People’s lives are always on the line with you, Sherlock, that’s what you do,” John insists.</p><p>“So you see, I can’t afford a distraction—”</p><p>“When have I ever been a distraction?” John shakes his head, confused. “Fine, I get it. Alright? No Sherlock Holmes, not in public. But why do I feel like I’m being ostracized?”</p><p>“We just asked you to help us with the case.”</p><p>“<em>Mycroft</em> asked for my help on the case, Sherlock,” John puts his hands on his hips. “You just said I shouldn’t do it. And apparently, I’m expected to do it alone, with no background on this guy whatsoever, not even knowing what I’m expected to find—”</p><p>“Anthea will—”</p><p>“Anthea will do nothing, Sherlock,” John plants his legs firmly on the ground. “I either work on this with you or not at all.”</p><p>“It could be dangerous, John.”</p><p>“Since when has that ever stopped me?” He tries a helpless chuckle.</p><p>“You weren’t a father before, John,” Sherlock says and the pleading in his voice stops John in his tracks. He blinks for a beat, taken aback by Sherlock’s unexpected thoughtfulness.</p><p>“Yes, I’m a father, but I’m not dead. I—” He clears his throat. “I’m still your partner. It’s… it’s my job to help you when you’re in trouble.”</p><p>“I’m <em>not</em> in trouble—”</p><p>“Look, do you want my help or not?” he interrupts, frustrated.</p><p>Sherlock stares at him for a long minute, his internal battle manifesting in his lips curling angrily. Finally, he nods, unsure but defiant.</p><p>“I’ll be at the bolthole later tonight, then, yeah? Be there too if you want my help, ” John says. “And Sherlock?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“If I do this, then there are no more lies,” John says, determined. “You either tell me everything, <em>all of it</em>, or I’m out.”</p><p>John has more to say, more to ask, but Mycroft’s office isn’t the place. He’s about to speak again when Sherlock’s phone pings. The man reads the incoming message; his back straightens and his attention shifts fully away from John and their conversation to the piece of information that was transmitted to him.</p><p>“Go ahead,” John sighs and gestures to the door, knowing full well there’ll be no stopping him now anyway.</p><p>Sherlock moves quickly and turns to leave the room.</p><p>“See you later,” John calls behind him, his shoulders slumped.</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock mumbles in response, rushing out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Reporter / Catching Up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Reporter</strong>
</p><p>“Billy?” Sherlock says, rushing into the bolthole after leaving John behind at Mycroft’s office.</p><p>“‘M right here.”</p><p>“What happened?” He grabs a chair, sitting next to Billy who opens a video file he shot on his phone earlier that day. It’s apparently important enough he’d found it imperative to call Sherlock back into his bolthole.</p><p>“He went to ASDA earlier.”</p><p>“ASDA?” Sherlock frowns in disappointment; of all places David could have picked for his first solo outing since returning he’d never imagined it to be ASDA. “What for?”</p><p>“Yeah. He was just... browsin’,” Wiggins says. He plays a video showing David moving between aisles. “Lookin’ at everything. Shampoos, garden appliances, jumpers.”</p><p>“Did he pick anything up?”</p><p>“Not at first,” Billy says, the video showing David turning a corner and inspecting light bulbs in what can only be described with an unnatural amount of interest in home fittings. “Then bathroom rugs, door locks.”</p><p><em>What is this?</em> Sherlock frowns.</p><p>“Did he stop to talk to anyone?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“No, no one.”</p><p>“How did he get there?”</p><p>“Walked. I was following him around and then—” In the video, Billy is interrupted by somebody.</p><p>“Can I help you, mate?”</p><p><em>Security</em>, Sherlock realizes. Billy must have looked like he was loitering.</p><p>“No, guv. ‘M alright.”</p><p>“Found what you were looking for, then?”</p><p>“Just looking for a mate.”</p><p>“I see,” the security guard says. “May I suggest that you go and wait for him by the cash registers? He just might turn up there.”</p><p>“Will do,” Billy says, and the video blurs as Billy moves around the store. “This is when it gets interesting.”</p><p>The video resumes, this time from Billy’s standpoint near the cash registers.</p><p>“What did he buy?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“A lockbox, a small rug, a door bolt and a phone,” Billy says.</p><p>“<em>Oh.</em>”</p><p>“He paid for everything with the credit card except for the phone,” Billy points out as David pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket. “He paid for the phone with cash.”</p><p>“<em>Brilliant</em>,” Sherlock whispers, buzzing with excitement over what seems to finally be an actual sign of <em>something</em>.</p><p>“But that’s not all of it,” Billy says and begins playing another video file. David leaves the store hastily, sour faced over the legions of reporters shoving microphones in his face. He ignores them, turning his back as he leaves, until one female reporter trails behind him.</p><p>“Corporal Stewart!” She calls him, and there’s a slight accent he doesn’t fully catch. “Don’t you think you have an obligation to tell the world what truly happened in Afghanistan?”</p><p>“No comment—” David huffs and waves her off.</p><p>“Won’t you do it for the love of your country?” she asks.</p><p>David freezes, his body tensing. He turns and looks at her suspiciously. “What did you say?”</p><p>“Won’t you do it for the love of your country?” She says again. “Tell us the real story of the war in Afghanistan?”</p><p>“Yes,” David says and Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise when the woman hands him a card that he pockets. “Yes, I will.”</p><p>They watch as David nods in thanks, looking stunned; he watches her walking away, then shaking his head he looks around him and leaves.</p><p>“What—who is she?” Sherlock mumbles at a shrugging Billy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Catching up</strong>
</p><p>John steps quietly into the suite of rooms he’d found the night before. The room is dark but for the distinctive blue light of electronics projecting in every direction and giving it an ethereal sense. John’s breath catches when he sees the man, his usually proud form now hunched over one screen with his headphones on.</p><p>He stops for a moment to gather his thoughts, scrambling around now that he finally has a chance to talk, really talk, with Sherlock. This isn’t how he imagined their interaction upon Sherlock’s return; he’d expected a visit to Baker Street with Rosie, or maybe being called off on a case at a moment’s notice.</p><p>He’s been cheated out of Sherlock’s life again. He has no choice but to wonder if this is his doing. If he’s the one who, for some reason, makes Sherlock leave.</p><p>Sherlock feels his stare, and he turns around, looking at him with red eyes and a small, barely noticeable smile.</p><p>“John,” Sherlock says and takes the headphones off one ear, apparently still listening with the other. He scans John from head to toe; deducing him.</p><p>What does he see?</p><p><em>Lied to Mary about my whereabouts. Nervous. </em> <em>Tired. Starving. </em></p><p>Sherlock signals John to come closer. John does, grabbing a chair and placing it right by Sherlock’s.</p><p>“Chicken Ruby,” John says, raising the bag of food like a peace offering. He sits down and unpacks the content of the bags wordlessly, feeling the heat of Sherlock’s stare. He realizes, now for the third time since he’d laid his eyes on Sherlock, that the man’s altered appearance makes his stomach flutter in a way he hadn’t felt in years—since their first days together, when John still had to get used to the beautiful creature who’d stepped into his life.</p><p>Sherlock was, and always will be, stunning in his perfect suits. John will never get enough of those. But this casual Sherlock, with black jumpers and red hair, taking away the stern image he tries to send to the world with his suits and his coat, is a bit more than John can take right now.</p><p>“Nice place you got here,” John says with a lopsided smile at Sherlock’s prying eyes. “Thought having a brother like Mycroft might mean he could find you a more decent place.”</p><p>“It’s enough.”</p><p>“It’s a dump.” John frowns.</p><p>“It’s temporary.”</p><p>“Right.” John nods. “Until you solve whatever this case is.”</p><p>“Right. Of course,” Sherlock says.</p><p>“What’s all this, then?” He notices the images on the screens and his eyes narrow for a better look. “Is that…?”</p><p>“Corporal Stewart’s house.” </p><p>“You’re…” John starts. “Spying on the man in his own house?”</p><p>“It’s where he’s been spending his days since returning.”</p><p>“Is that legal?”</p><p>Sherlock tilts his head and twists his face. “What is ‘<em>legal’ </em>these days, really, John?”</p><p>“What are you…” John says. “What are you hoping to find? What did he do?”</p><p>“Nothing yet. Let’s hope it stays that way.”</p><p>“Alright, alright,” he says, rubbing his hands on his thighs nervously, leaning into Sherlock’s space. “Let’s start over.” He smiles nervously. “It’s good to see you.”</p><p>Sherlock’s collected face twists with emotion. “Thank you, John. It’s good to see you, too.”</p><p>“Good to have you back.”</p><p>Sherlock smiles again, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes this time.</p><p>“Mycroft said… no,” he shakes his head, rethinking his words. “I figured that maybe after the last time you came back you might have been worried about how I’d… react.” He stops and searches for any sign of acknowledgment. “I’m proud of you. For what you did. For saving that soldier.”</p><p>Sherlock throws him a side glance.</p><p>“Can you tell me about it?”</p><p>“What would you like to know?”</p><p>“Was it…” John sniffs nervously, thinking back to the scars he’d found on the man’s back that day at the hospital. “Are you OK?”</p><p>“I’m perfectly fine, John.” Sherlock says.</p><p>“Were you actually in Afghanistan?”</p><p>“No, of course not,” Sherlock says. “Mostly Jordan and Israel. A short stint in Turkey and Syria. Mainly negotiations and following up on leads provided by assets.”</p><p>“The full experience.” John smiles.</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>“And yet you’re a walking skeleton,” he teases, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow in surprise.</p><p>“I’ve been to Jordan once,” John says. “Came back with an extra five pounds. They feed you up, there.”</p><p>“They did, it was horrible.” Sherlock frowns. “But then came the months in the safehouse. Not a chickpea in sight.”</p><p>“I see,” John laughs. “That’s too bad.”</p><p>“It was alright.” Sherlock shrugs.</p><p>“Were you there when they actually found him?”</p><p>“No,” Sherlock says. “They brought him to the safehouse. I was the first British person he’d met in nearly a decade.”</p><p>John nods and calculates his next move. That was actually more than he thought he’d ever get. He clears his throat before he speaks again. “It’s been awfully quiet without you. Boring. Well, not entirely quiet.”</p><p>He pulls his phone out and shows Sherlock his lock screen photo.</p><p>Sherlock stares at the photo for a beat. John sees his face rearranging itself into a well-composed, regal disinterest. His eyes, though, they’re wide and round at the sight.</p><p>“Rosamund,” Sherlock mumbles.</p><p>“Yes.” John smiles warmly, the sound of his daughter’s name spoken in Sherlock’s voice warming his insides. “Rosie. I sent Mycroft some photos. Did he show you any?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Oh.” </p><p>Sherlock stares at the photo. “She’s beautiful, John.”</p><p>“She’s perfect.” John smiles proudly, relieved. “Quite big now. Will probably start crawling soon. The birth was… incredible, Sherlock. I wish you could have been there with me, it was…” He trails off. “I want you to meet her. I want her to meet her...” He stumbles over his own words, unsure what title he’s about to bestow on this man. “...erm, her Sherlock.”</p><p>“Not sure it’s a good idea,” Sherlock points at the screens, “what with…”</p><p>John bites his tongue, feeling the conversation moving away from him. “With?”</p><p>“The work, John.”</p><p>“Right,” John says, working very hard to tamp down his anger. “No, you’re right. She’s just my daughter. Why would you bother to take the time to meet her?”</p><p>“John—”</p><p>“No, I know. You don’t like babies. And kids.” John sends him a sour smile, all the joy in him suddenly dissipating. “And people in general, right?”</p><p>“It’s simply a matter of safety, John,” Sherlock says, his voice flat. “I tend to bring trouble wherever I go. I’d rather not endanger a child—especially yours.”</p><p>“Oh,” John gapes at the confession. “I see. Well, that’s… thoughtful. But also unnecessary, Sherlock. I doubt you’d ruin her life sitting on a bench in a park.”</p><p>Sherlock stares at the screens, swallows again.</p><p>“We can wait till after the case, then. Yeah?” John says, hoping for a truce. He clears his throat and grabs a box and a fork, opening it as he examines Sherlock further. Sticking a fork into a piece of chicken, he takes a bite.</p><p>He eats as he watches Sherlock scanning images on the screen, though there’s no movement anywhere in the house.</p><p>“Looks nice,” John blurts, unable to stop the words from leaving his mouth. Sherlock turns to look at him, confused.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You. This,” he says, pointing the fork in the general direction of Sherlock’s face. “All of this. You look nice... dashing.”</p><p>Sherlock snorts. “Dashing, John? Really?”</p><p>Finally, a real smile.</p><p>“Yeah, you know,” John says and smiles back. “You’re posh and all that. Dashing is what I’m going with. Is that your real hair colour?”</p><p>“You’re being far too inquisitive tonight, John.”</p><p>“I’ll take that as a yes.” John chuckles when he notices the man is utterly flustered. “The scruff and the... It’s... nice.”</p><p>“You’re insufferable.” Sherlock says as he smells the contents of one box and takes a bite, making his stomach grumble and his face blush.</p><p>“I know,” John says with a low, fond voice, chewing his chicken. “Learn to take a compliment, you wanker. How many do you get?”</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes, smelling another box.</p><p>“Eat now,” John says with a winning smile.</p><p>They eat watching the still images on the various screens. The silence is soon broken by a movement. The Stewarts are back home, carrying bags from the shops. There are flashing lights blaring through the doorway, that disappear as soon as Alison closes it.</p><p>John can’t hear what they’re saying; the sounds are jumbled through the headphones, but he can read David’s body language. The man flops heavily on a chair as soon as they enter and his wife drops the bags. She approaches him hurriedly, rubbing his back.</p><p>“What’s going on?” John asks.</p><p>“Panic attack, by the looks of it.”</p><p>“What, from shopping?” He moves the chair closer to Sherlock, trying to get a better view.</p><p>“I’m… I’m sorry,” says a hyperventilating David. Alison takes his hands and looks into his eyes, speaking softly.</p><p>“Don’t be,” she says. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Big breaths.”</p><p>“I.. I.. I don’t know what happened,” David stutters. “I was perfectly fine earlier.”</p><p>“Too many people. There were just too many people around,” she says, breathing in and out demonstrably for him. “You should take things slower, David. Maybe hold off on outings without me. It’s only been a couple of days.”</p><p>“I... hate... being stuck... at home...”</p><p>“Henry said this might happen,” she says, rubbing his hands. “That you shouldn’t leave the house alone—”</p><p>“I’m not a child!” David lashes out and Alison jumps in surprise.</p><p>“I know you’re no—”</p><p>“Don’t touch me!” David stands abruptly, kicking the chair from under him. He leaves the room and travels up the stairs to the bedroom.</p><p>“Jesus. Their bedroom, Sherlock?” John turns to question Sherlock and finds his face grim, his jaw tight.</p><p>“That’s espionage, John,” he says and tilts his head uncomfortably. “Don’t think I’m enjoying this.”</p><p>“Didn’t think you did,” he murmurs as they both watch Alison putting the bags away and arranging the kitchen. She picks her phone up and dials but gets no answer, opting for a text instead.</p><p>“Didn’t you say she’s involved with somebody else?” John asks, suddenly remembering a detail from their earlier conversation.</p><p>“Yes. Henry,” Sherlock says and John turns, wordlessly prompting more details. “Captain Henry Mason, the visiting bereavement officer assigned to her.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“I bet that’s who she called.” Sherlock gestures at the screen. “They’ve been together a year now. They were discussing moving in together.”</p><p>“And Stewart doesn’t know yet?”</p><p>Sherlock shakes his head.</p><p>“Christ,” John whispers. “Can you imagine, grieving him for so long, then suddenly—” He stops when he catches that train of thought. Sherlock throws him a wordless side glance.</p><p>“And to complicate matters,” Sherlock continues, “he’s been rather unfaithful to her.”</p><p>“David?” John's head turns quickly.</p><p>“Unbeknownst to her. Had a lengthy affair during his last tour.”</p><p>“He… he told you that?”</p><p>“He didn’t have to,” Sherlock says dismissively.</p><p>Alison walks into the bedroom with a cup of tea. She sits next to David on the bed. He’s relaxed now, albeit hunched in defeat at the end of the mattress. Their backs are, unbeknownst to them, turned to the camera.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” he says, letting out a suffering exhale. “Fuck. All I’ve been doing since coming back is apologizing to you.”</p><p>She pats his hand and smiles, handing him the tea. “All I’ve been doing is telling you that it's OK.”</p><p>“I…” David starts, his voice cool and detached. “I know this isn’t what you expected.”</p><p>“What are you on about?” she says.</p><p>"I know I'm not the man you remembered me to be-"</p><p>"David, please."</p><p>“I’m not—”He moves to take a sip from the mug but his hands are shaking, and he spills tea on the front of his shirt. “Fuck. Fuck!”</p><p>“Shhh, here,” she says calmly, taking the tea away and grabbing the edges of his shirt, pulling it up. “Take this off.”</p><p>When he does, John's breath catches at the sight of man’s back. Tracks on tracks of deep old scars, making his back look like the surface of the moon. There’s no mistaking what had happened to him. It was brutal, and repetitive, and inhumanly painful. John’s doctor brain recognizes the patterns, the depth, the absence of proper medical treatment.</p><p>“Does it hurt if I touch them?” Alison whispers, her hand fluttering gently over David’s back.</p><p>He shakes his head, his entire body shaking. Alison moves her hand softly across his back, kissing his right shoulder tentatively.</p><p>“Jesus,” John whispers, averting his eyes; it suddenly dawns on him he’s an uninvited witness to an incredibly intimate moment. Sherlock sits frozen by his side, his eyes unseeing as he’s staring at the screen. “Poor fucker. They were cruel to him.”</p><p>“Yes, they were.”</p><p>John has to bite his lip in order to keep the words from leaving his mouth. He has so much to say, but he knows Sherlock well enough to know he won't be getting any answers. The silence between them is deafening, the weight of their own unspoken words heavy in the dark room.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>John clears his throat uncomfortably sometime later when they watch David joining Alison in bed. She moves closer to David, caressing his chest, kissing and licking up his jawline. David closes his eyes, his body tense. He moves, effectively turning her away.</p><p>“Turn it off, Sherlock,” John says, his voice tight.</p><p>“I can’t.”</p><p>“Give them some privacy, for Christ’s sake,” John grunts, reaching for the screen and pressing the power button.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Did you know about it?” he asks as he watches Sherlock buzzing around the dark room, passing notes to and from the evidence wall.</p><p>“Hmm?” Sherlock’s humming is far away, distracted.</p><p>“His scars, did you know about them?” John says and gestures towards the screen. “You weren’t surprised when you saw them.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Did he tell you about them? About what they did to him?”</p><p>“Yes, he did.”</p><p>“Must have got pretty close, then.” John juts his head towards the screen. “The two of you.”</p><p>“We were the only people in that house for weeks, John,” Sherlock frowns. “Was I supposed to ignore him?”</p><p>John chuckles bitterly. “That was how you sold yourself.”</p><p>Sherlock turns to look at him, confused.</p><p>“As a flatmate, when we met,” John’s lips twist in a reluctant smile. “You used to ignore me for days on end.”</p><p>“Would you take pride in knowing that I’ve since learned it’s somewhat rude and unbecoming?”</p><p>John utters a silent ‘<em>Oh</em>’as he looks at Sherlock with disbelief. “So what, you became best mates or something?”</p><p>“We became nothing, John,” Sherlock says sternly. “I was doing my job.”</p><p>“Did you tell him about yours?” John's voice is low and careful. “About your scars? About your first time away?”</p><p>“He doesn’t know who I am, John.”</p><p>John huffs and crosses his arms, far too familiar with Sherlock’s deflection tactics. “Did you?”</p><p>It’s all the answer John needs when Sherlock turns to look at the evidence wall wordlessly. John’s chair creaks loudly as he leans back with a heavy sigh, looking away.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“John?” Sherlock calls him. “John?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“It’s late. Go home.”</p><p>John swallows and sits up, looking at his watch. “It’s fine, I don’t have to go yet.”</p><p>“You’re exhausted and you have to work tomorrow,” he says as he sits in front of the screens. “Go home.”</p><p>“You didn’t brief me on David.”</p><p>“We can do it some other time.”</p><p>John blinks at him for a beat, reading the dismissal in Sherlock’s voice. “Yeah, alright. I’ll come over tomorrow then, yeah?”</p><p>“I won’t be here tomorrow night,” Sherlock says.</p><p>“So, the day after next?”</p><p>Sherlock nods.</p><p>“Good night, then.”</p><p>“Good night, John.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>John washes up, checks on Rosie. She’s fast asleep. Minutes later he finds himself staring out the window, holding a tumbler with two fingers of whisky.</p><p>He closes his eyes, his body shivering. <em>That didn’t take long, did it?</em> All the work he’d done to distance himself from Sherlock, from his memory, wiped clean in one second today when he stepped into Mycroft’s office and laid his eyes on him.</p><p><em>You’re an idiot</em>, he thinks as he empties the tumbler in one short sweep and retreats slowly from the window to refill it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He turns the light on in the utility room and blinks as it comes on. Taking his gun out of its holster he moves the coats and umbrellas away to expose the safe. It’s an old mechanical one he’d had installed a few days short of Rosie’s birth, remembering in a panic that he’d somehow neglected an important part of baby proofing.</p><p>He freezes when the placement of the safe’s dial catches his eyes.</p><p>“Mary?” He calls and finds her in bed, dozing in front of the telly.</p><p>It’s then that he realizes that he’s not sure what to ask.</p><p>He always leaves the dial of the safe on zero when he locks it—he’s not even sure why, some sort of habit he never really thought about. The dial was aimed at four when he came back tonight.</p><p>Somebody touched it. What was she looking for?</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>He freezes, clearing his throat. “Never mind.”</p><p>She’s quiet for a long moment, then turns to look at him. The room suddenly feels very cold.</p><p>“Where have you been?” she asks, now fully awake.</p><p>A myriad of possible answers goes through his mind, from blatant lies to half-truths to juvenile deflections. What’s the point though, he wonders? she can tell when he lies, anyway, and playing this game might make her think there’s any point to it whatsoever.</p><p>“You know where I’ve been.”</p><p>“A case?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>
  <em>You knew that, didn’t you? Isn’t that why you opened the safe—to see whether the gun was gone?</em>
</p><p>She’s silent for a long moment, so he sees his chance and heads for the kitchen.</p><p>“So is this what it’s going to be like?” she asks, appearing in the kitchen a moment later.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I thought we’d agreed we were done with that.”</p><p>“Done with what?”</p><p>“The cases. The danger,” she says. “Chasing him around.”</p><p>“We?” he asks, resting his back against the kitchen counter. “When did <em>we</em> agree on anything of the sort?”</p><p>“When we became parents, John,” Mary says. “Stop being obtuse.”</p><p>“I’m really not, Mary.” He sighs. “You knew exactly what you were marrying into. Him, our work, it’s a package deal.”</p><p>She huffs. “Does he know that?”</p><p>“Mary—”</p><p>“So you can do that while I’m stuck here, for days on end?”</p><p>“We’re not stuck here, Mary,” he says, “we’re raising a baby. You were the one who wanted to go on full maternity leave. You can go back to work tomorrow, for all I care.”</p><p>Mary sighs too, dropping her hands on her thighs.</p><p>“I’m arranging it all with Liz tomorrow, moving my shifts around,” he says. “I’m switching to part-time evening, part-time morning shifts. You’ll get some of your mornings back.”</p><p>She laughs, and if he hadn’t known any better it would have sounded cruel. “You’re already moving your shifts around?”</p><p>“Yeah,” John says. “He needs my help.”</p><p>She shakes her head, dismayed. “You’re a right fool, John.”</p><p>“Oh?” He smiles an angry smile. “Why’s that?”</p><p>“He doesn’t need your help. He never needed your help.” She takes a few steps, moving closer to him. “That’s why he left. He knew he wouldn’t be able to have you around to play with, so there was no use in you anymore. <em>He leaves, that’s what he does</em>. Wasn’t that what you said?”</p><p>“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“He’s using you, he always has. He’ll leave again and you’ll be a miserable husband to live with, <em>again</em>.”</p><p>He nods his head slowly, faux-contemplative. “I’ll take that risk.”</p><p>“Fine, you do that.” She grabs the back of a chair. “But I don’t want him anywhere near Rosie or this house. He’s dangerous.”</p><p>“You’re one to talk,” he mumbles, the venom in his tone catching even himself by surprise.</p><p>They stare at each other, the stalemate thick and heavy.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The next morning he wakes on the sofa again. Mary’s steps around the kitchen rouse him in the middle of a dream. She doesn’t wake him this time.</p><p>They don’t speak that morning at all. He leaves for the clinic without so much as goodbye.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Dead and Buried / David</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Dead and Buried</strong>
</p><p>“An iPhone,” Billy says immediately as Sherlock picks up the call, foregoing niceties.</p><p>“What’s that?” he asks, distracted.</p><p>“The missus bought him an iPhone. A brand-new one. That’s everything you’ve missed out on.”</p><p>Sherlock finally directs his full attention to Billy’s words, the seemingly ordinary piece of information causing him to frown. Of course Alison would buy David a phone - who knows if David even had one when he left for Afghanistan, and even if he did, it’s long gone. But If Alison had bought David a phone, it means she doesn’t know about the one David had purchased for himself earlier that week at ASDA. David had bought it with cash—cash Sherlock isn’t sure how he’d got, and clearly, he’s hiding it from Alison.</p><p>“Did he open it? Is he using it?”</p><p>“He got a phone call from someone, someone from the army, I think.” Billy says. “They asked him to give a speech.”</p><p>“A speech?” Sherlock asks, his pulse suddenly picking up. The memory of David’s strange finger movements, what Mycroft had mistaken for nervous fidgeting, suddenly floats back to his memory. He’s been waiting for an opportunity to watch David speaking in front of cameras since the day they landed.</p><p>“He said no.”</p><p>Sherlock frowns again, frustration building up.</p><p>“Has he been doing anything else today?”</p><p>“<em>No,</em>” Billy moans.</p><p>“You sound <em>bored</em>,” Sherlock drawls, his own fatigue leaving him somewhat amused by Billy’s whinging.</p><p>“Well they’re quite boring, these two, aren’t they?” Billy complains. “I think the more important question is, when‘re you gonna buy me an iPhone?”</p><p>“When you return heroically from nine years of enemy imprisonment.” Sherlock rubs his eyes, sore and tired from hours on end of reading. Pages and pages of inane, meticulous, detailed intelligence reports from the months prior to David and Jonathan’s capture.</p><p>“Oh, I forgot. The wife mentioned some’ne. Rachel-somethin’. Said she wants to meet up with them, maybe dinner.”</p><p>“Rachel?” Sherlock’s back straightens in attention. He browses through the numerous pieces of data in his mind, sure the name is important. “Rachel who?”</p><p>“Err—”</p><p>“Was it Rachel Clarke?”</p><p>“Yeah, actually, sounds ‘bout right.”</p><p>Jonathan Palmer’s sister.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, that’s good. </em>
</p><p>“He said no, though,” Billy continues. “Said he wasn’t ready yet.”</p><p><em>For Christ’s sake</em>, he thinks, dropping his phone on the table in frustration.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock sips his tea solemnly at the Diogenes Club as he watches one of Mycroft’s cronies remotely installing a spyware app on David’s new iPhone.</p><p>It takes a disturbingly miniscule amount of effort to invade someone’s entire life these days.</p><p>The man smiles at Sherlock as he leaves the room, unencumbered by the task he’d just performed. Sherlock smiles back, a foreboding smile if he’d ever smiled one. Every track of his mind converges on what seems to be the most promising opportunity for an actual lead that might pull him out of this dead end road; getting something, anything useful about David's plans.</p><p>“Elin Thøgersen,” Mycroft says, apropos of nothing, as he joins Sherlock in the room, throwing a dossier at him.</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“The reporter who captured the corporal’s attention outside ASDA a few days ago,” Mycroft says. “I looked into her, as requested.”</p><p>“Anything interesting?”</p><p>“You mean, other than being the daughter of Kasper Thøgersen, former Danish Ambassador to Riyadh?”</p><p>Sherlock raises his eyes to Mycroft quickly, surprised. “A diplomat’s daughter?”</p><p>“Yes,” Mycroft smiles winningly.</p><p>“That’s… unexpected.”</p><p>“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees. “It’s a promising lead.”</p><p>“A Danish journalist?” Sherlock scans the dossier. “Smells a bit of—”</p><p>“Magnussen?” Mycroft crosses his legs. “It crossed my mind, too. But she never worked for him in any capacity. She wouldn’t. Magnussen had become <em>persona non grata</em> in Denmark years ago, having burnt all his bridges with the Danish Crown and government before expanding his business internationally. An ambassador’s daughter would never be allowed to work for him or anyone associated with him.”</p><p>“Where does she work, then?”</p><p>“She’s a freelance arts and culture reporter for UPI, an Associated Press competitor,” Mycroft says. “A small fish in a rather large pond. Her claim to fame is a series of cheeky Russian Ballet reviews.”</p><p>“Hardly indicative of pointed war journalism,” Sherlock says. “What are her political leanings?”</p><p>“Non-existent, as far as the cursory background search goes,” Mycroft says.</p><p>“Oh, please.” Sherlock frowns in disbelief.</p><p>“I’ve raised her to level two grade surveillance,” Mycroft says. “She’s in Copenhagen right now, visiting with her family.”</p><p>“That’s hardly enough, Mycroft.”</p><p>“She’s a diplomat’s daughter, Sherlock, and she’s done nothing wrong so far besides speaking to the man.”</p><p>“She’s up to something.”</p><p>“I’m sure you’re right,” Mycroft says. “The minute she so much as drives past his house she’ll be upgraded to level three.”</p><p>“What about tracking software on his other phone? The burner?” Sherlock stands and moves to grab his coat, grumbling unintelligibly. “And a surveillance camera in the attic?”</p><p>“Anteha is working on obtaining the serial number of the burner phone. It’s an older model, not a smartphone, so it’ll be a bit more difficult to obtain,” Mycroft says. “And as for the attic, I’m afraid between the Corporal barely leaving the house and the crowd of reporters never staying away from it, it's been rather difficult to enter without being detected. Where are you off to now?”</p><p>“Leg work,” Sherlock says. “Not that you’d know anything about it.”</p><p>“No Dr. Watson?”</p><p>Sherlock’s body freezes at the insinuation at the familiarity of it all; of having John on a case with him, of Mycroft’s condescending jibes about their tangled, miserable lives. He closes his eyes in defeat and heads out the door without another word.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Rachel Clarke (née Palmer) is nothing short of stunningly, horribly plain. Not John-plain; of course not, no one is so beautifully boring and plain as John is. She’s the exact opposite of one of a kind; so much so that he gets bored just following her around the stuffy indie bookshop/café travesty where she’d chosen to earn her keep. (<em>Originally a librarian, lost the job in a round of municipal cost-cutting, chose this place temporarily at first because it’s walking distance from her flat, and she likes the atmosphere—poetry slam evenings make her feel relevant and cool, stayed due to inertia and because they were generous with the first maternity leave).</em></p><p>She waddles around the store, her big belly clearing the way for her <em>(second pregnancy; hoping for a girl this time, thirty-two, no- thirty</em><em> weeks in), </em>smiling to the regulars. He stood by her station earlier as he inquired for one book or another and spotted an invitation to a baby shower arranged by one of her colleagues (<em>was hidden under a stack of paper; not very excited about the prospect; most likely emotionally rattled over David’s return without her brother</em>).</p><p>He learns absolutely nothing from watching her around the bookshop that day, nor the maddeningly uneventful morning the next day. He’s nearly made up his mind on giving up when the store’s doorbell rings and the front door opens.</p><p>David walks in wearing a large black hoodie. He stalls near the door quietly, hesitantly, his eyes searching the front desk.</p><p>“David?” Rachel’s voice, soft and emotional, comes from the other side of the store.</p><p>Sherlock turns away slightly to avoid being seen; he moves stealthily to stand behind a wall full of books, well within their earshot.</p><p>“Rachel?” David asks hesitantly.</p><p>“Hi.” She moves surprisingly fast for a heavily pregnant woman, covering her mouth in disbelief. “Hi, oh my god…”</p><p>They watch each other for a good long minute, both clearly wanting to avoid any attention while holding back a storm of emotions.</p><p>“Alison said…” Rachel croaks. “She said you said no. To dinner, to seeing me.”</p><p>“Yes.” David nods. “I’m sorry, I… panicked. I’m still… overwhelmed, I suppose.”</p><p>“Oh god…” She trails off, finally breaking down and dragging him into a body-shaking hug. “Of course, I’m sorry…”</p><p>“It’s alright,” David says, patting her back and breaking the hug. He grabs her shoulders. “I wanted to… Can we… Is there anywhere we can speak in private?”</p><p>“Of course!” she exclaims, wiping a tear. She seems lost in her confusion, unsure what to do next. “Of course, let me just… Let me jus—oh god!”</p><p>“Relax,” David smiles, squeezing her shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock follows them around for ten minutes until they settle for a bench in a nearby garden square. Using his own hoodie to disguise himself, he crosses the road from them and signals Billy to move to a closer bench, their voices travelling through the microphone Billy is wearing.</p><p>“God, I don’t even know where to begin,” Rachel sniffs, a tissue in one hand, David’s right hand in her other. “I guess I just… you know—” She shakes her head sorrowfully. “They came over a couple of weeks ago and said… said that you told them Jonathan is dead.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“But they refused to say what happened.”</p><p>“What do you want to know?” David asks, finally raising his eyes to look at her.</p><p>“How he died.”</p><p>“Rachel—”</p><p>“Did he suffer?” she asks. “Was he buried?”</p><p>“He’s gone.” David shakes his head. “What difference does it make?”</p><p>“What?” she huffs in indignation. “How can you say that? It makes all the difference in the world. What else do I have left?”</p><p>David looks down and away, her point taken.</p><p>“Are you sure he’s dead?” She tries again weakly.</p><p>“Yes. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“How? I need to know, please.”</p><p>David doesn’t speak for a long moment.</p><p>“Were you really with him when you were taken?” she asks, trying a different angle.</p><p>“Yes. We were on observation duty together that night.”</p><p>“Was he… upset? Or angry?”</p><p>“What do you mean?” David frowns.</p><p>“He and I, we talked that night,” she explains. “He was allowed to make an emergency call because our mum was in critical condition.”</p><p>“Yes, I remember.”</p><p>“Something was wrong with him. He said he was worried he was about to be punished for something. He never talked to me like that before. And then he was gone, and all I could ever think about was that we argued in our last conversation…”</p><p>“Oh,” David says in a slight whisper. “Rachel, really…”</p><p>“Before they took you...” She deplores him. “Did he say anything?”</p><p>“No.” David says solemnly. “No, he didn’t.”</p><p>“Alright.” She nods and sniffs some more. “What happened to him, David?”</p><p>“I don’t know if we should…” David points at her round belly. “In your condition…”</p><p>“Please David, Mum and Dad are gone. I’m the only one left and I need to know.”</p><p>“He was beaten to death, Rachel,” David blurts out quickly. “Right in front of my eyes. I held him in my arms as he was taking his last breaths.”</p><p>Sherlock’s breath catches in surprise, David’s words hitting him like a moving truck.</p><p>“Oh god…” Rachel whispers, her fists closing in distress, her shoulders shaking.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Did they…” She looks away in pain. “Did they bury him, at least?”</p><p>“Yes,” David whispers. “I dug his grave myself.”</p><p>Sherlock blinks for a long moment, the sensation surging through his body rare and unwelcome. Confusion hits him, the inability to determine which of David’s versions of the truth is the correct one.</p><p>Sherlock watches as David hugs Rachel, comforting her in her grief.</p><p>“Well, I suppose that’s it, then.” She takes a breath and they let each other go. “Thank you for telling me.”</p><p>“I’m sorry. For having to break this to you this way.”</p><p>“I’d like to give him a memorial service,” she says, looking into the distance.</p><p>“Yeah.” He sniffs. “Sounds nice.”</p><p>“Will you come?” She turns to look at him, noticing his frozen form as she extends the invite. “He talked about you. A lot,” she says. “I know you were… important to him—”</p><p>“Rachel—”</p><p>“You were close. Very close,” she says and eyes him knowingly.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“It’ll be very short and simple, David. Just a service and some words in his memory. No press, I promise. And afterwards you lot can go to a local and get pissed and catch up.” She pleads with him. “You were the last person who saw him, and… and… You were there for him, with him. Please, David.”</p><p>“Alright. Alright.” David concedes. “But please, everything I just told you… it’s classified. If anyone finds out I told you—”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” she says, grabbing his thigh. “I won’t tell a soul, I promise.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock disregards the rest of the conversation, his mind swirling with this new information.</p><p>David clearly stated in his first debrief that he had no idea when and how Palmer died, and he just told a very different story to the man’s sister.</p><p>He supposes this could be a kindness; saving her from the terrible limbo of not knowing. After all, what’s the harm in what David had just done? He gave her the peace of mind she’d been seeking for years, and now she’ll be able to let her brother go.</p><p>As kind as it is, though, it’s still a lie. The realization makes his stomach turn; David never mentioned anything of that kind when they were in Gaza. This is not the sort of information one is likely to overlook or misremember.</p><p>One of David’s versions is a lie. The problem is Sherlock can’t be sure which one. And Sherlock hates not knowing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>David</strong>
</p><p>“Hey,” John says, closing the big, heavy door behind him.</p><p>The silent room is dark and humming with something John can’t really put his finger on. Is it electricity, from somewhere in the building? Sherlock is here, so the place should feel familiar, welcoming, but it isn’t. It’s a foreign territory John still hasn’t charted.</p><p>“John.” Sherlock turns in his chair and squints, taking his headphones down. His eyes are red and tired; of course they would be, if he spends his days watching the video feed and reading on his phone in this poor lighting.</p><p>“You look like crap.” He steps into the room slowly, surveying his surroundings. No food. A few plastic cups scattered around. “When was the last time you slept?”</p><p>Sherlock shrugs and turns back to the screen.</p><p>“Where <em>are</em> you sleeping these days?” John asks, the question far more accusatory than intended.</p><p>“Really, John.” Sherlock frowns and looks at the folding bed.</p><p>“Really? Here?” John says. “No wonder you look like shit.”</p><p>“You don’t seem very invigorated yourself,” Sherlock says coolly. “Perhaps you should consider buying a more comfortable sofa.”</p><p>“That would be one way to go, I suppose.” He clears his throat, stopping the spiral of words begging to leave his mouth, begging to be spoken.</p><p>He senses Sherlock’s side glance like a laser beam; it’s as discomforting as it's ever been.</p><p>“So, er. How’s our war hero?” he asks, moving a chair around, aiming for as little emotion as possible considering the jibe he was just hit with.</p><p>“Hiding in the attic,” Sherlock sighs, sitting back in his chair in frustration.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“He does that a few times a day.” Sherlock nods and juts his chin towards the screen. “Goes up to the attic for five minutes, sometimes more, sometimes less.”</p><p>“What’s he doing there?”</p><p>“Don’t know. They haven’t left the house long enough for Mycroft’s people to install eyes there,” Sherlock exhales. “Only does it when his wife is out of the house or asleep.”</p><p>Sherlock points down at a journal, his notes mark events of note that have taken place, including times.</p><p>“Hmm,” John says. “Where’s his wife now?”</p><p>“Out for a rendezvous with her boyfriend,” Sherlock reports. “They were speaking on the phone earlier. They’d agreed she’d tell David about them by now, but she seems to be conflicted about it.”</p><p>“Ouch,” John mumbles and looks at Sherlock whose face is, as usual, nothing short of inscrutable. “So, erm, how about briefing me about him? Any thoughts about how you’d like me to run into him?”</p><p>“Yes, I do, actually,” Sherlock says. “He met up with Rachel Clarke today, Corporal Palmer’s sister.”</p><p>“His spotter?”</p><p>“That’s right.” Sherlock nods. “She’s invited him for a memorial service she’s been planning for a while. She was holding out for a final confirmation from David that as far as he knows Jonathan is really dead.”</p><p>“Was there ever any doubt about that?”</p><p>“I think you and I both know it’s wise to always doubt about these things, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock turns and sends a meaningful glare his way. “She mentioned a short memorial and going to a pub afterwards, to get ‘<em>pissed’</em>,” Sherlock says in a snarky tone. “I think it would make sense if someone like you might run into him in that pub. A war veteran who just happens to be in the area.”</p><p>“Sounds good.”</p><p>“He’s been experiencing panic attacks around large groups of people,” Sherlock continues. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he had one there, too.”</p><p>“I see.” John nods, seeing where Sherlock is going with that. “I can be the good doctor coming to his rescue.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Sherlock says and moves a pile of documents towards John. Not that Sherlock needs them; everything he says afterwards comes from the deep recesses of his brain.</p><p>“David Julian Stewart,” Sherlock says. “Born in Glasgow. Orphaned at an early age. Grew up in a Catholic orphanage in the area as a devout Catholic. Met Alison through charity work at church and married young. They moved to the London suburbs with Alison’s mother immediately after their wedding so Alison could study to become a social worker. David joined the British Forces in late 2003 and was trained as a sniper. An excellent one, at that. His plan was to save up enough to cover the costs of Alison’s tuition and buy a house back in Glasgow.”</p><p>“Sounds standard so far.” John nods.</p><p>“He was deployed rather close to Kabul at first, but the situation deteriorated in Southern Afghanistan shortly after he arrived there. Swedish and Danish NATO forces took over British ones in Kabul, who were sent to the Helmand province instead.”</p><p>“Yes, I know all about that.” John nods. “Where was he posted there?”</p><p>“He made the rounds at first. Maiwand, Gershek, Nazwad. No notes of anything extraordinary happening in any of these locations.” Sherlock tilts his head. “Well, no more than usual. Then they were sent to Musa Qala, where they were placed under siege by the Taliban for fifty-five days.”</p><p>“Seriously?” John’s eyebrows rise to the ceiling.</p><p>“You’re familiar with the siege on Musa Qala?”</p><p>“Of course I’m familiar with it. Every soldier in Afghanistan heard about Musa Qala.” John shakes his head. “It was brutal. They were sent to their deaths.”</p><p>“Yes.” Sherlock nods. “But he survived it, as did Jonathan Palmer. The whole thing was brought to an end thanks to the Musa Qala elders who negotiated a truce. They were then sent to R&amp;R and when they returned, they were stationed in an outpost just outside Farah.”</p><p>“Very different from Musa Qala.”</p><p>“Indeed.” Sherlock nods. “Farah was considered a relatively lower-risk compound, and it was their last assignment before the end of that tour.”</p><p>“What was their assignment in Farah?”</p><p>“Farah was the home of large power and water plants that served the entire area, including and, most importantly, the NATO forces deployed there. Their mission was to guard those plants.”</p><p>“Yes, of course.”</p><p>“On the night of 25 July, 2006, David and Jonathan took their turn on the compound's observation tower for observation duty. According to official reports, insurgents caused a malfunction to the compound's power grid as well as the backup supply, throwing the compound into pitch darkness, which also meant the radio system was gone. They then raided the compound, killing three Afghan ISAF soldiers, wounded 15 British soldiers and took David and Jonathan as POWs.”</p><p>“How?” John surveys the pages, confused.</p><p>“How?”</p><p>“Yeah, how? What did the official investigation come up with?” John asks. “A compound doesn’t fall that easily into enemy hands. Something happened.”</p><p>“The immediate suspects were the Afghan ISAF soldiers, but there wasn’t enough evidence to implicate them,” Sherlock says. “The investigation placed the final responsibility for the events of that night on Captain Evan Aldridge. He was the highest ranking officer at the compound at the time. Unfortunately he was also the one who sustained the most critical injuries. He was placed in an induced coma for a considerable period of time and is still under outpatient rehabilitation. That meant the investigation lagged for years, but due to his condition, no actions were taken against him. Not yet, at least.”</p><p>“Jesus,” John says. “So what’s your theory?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“You must have some theory about what happened that night,” John says. “David must have talked about it.”</p><p>“He claims to not remember much from that night. In his briefing back in the Intel Corps headquarters he’d said repeatedly that there was no intel or signs of an impending attack, and as far as the documents go he seems to be speaking the truth,” Sherlock says. “It’s been years, and he’s gone through thoroughly traumatic periods that might, in all rights, make his memories untrustworthy.”</p><p>“But?” John asks. “You don’t sound very convinced, what have you deduced about him?”</p><p>“He’s a compulsive liar, and a good one at that,” Sherlock says. “It’s hard to deduce anything coherent about a man in his condition, but his talent for lying made him stand out in his RTI training, so much so that it was noted in his personnel file.”</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“The head trainer of the RTI program was so surprised by his abilities he even had him take a polygraph test in a controlled environment. He lied through his teeth but passed with flying colours.”</p><p>“Wow,” John says.</p><p>“Indeed.” Sherlock nods. “You can read all about it here. More documents about Stewart, the little I was able to sneak away, and some more on that laptop. Thought you might make more sense of them. Mostly intel logs and documentation from the weeks before the attack.”</p><p>“Yeah, good,” John says and looks around, searching for something more comfortable to spend the next few hours on. The bed beckons him; he gives in to the siren call of a soft mattress now that he’s been tasked with hours worth of reading materials.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>John is woken up from a document-reading induced doze some time later, watching Sherlock grumbling at David disappearing into the attic. Disoriented, he peeks at his watch—almost midnight—then shakes his head and resumes reading.</p><p>When Sherlock suddenly speaks, still staring at the screens, John has to strain to be sure he’s actually speaking.</p><p>“Were you ever in Musa Qala?”</p><p>“Me?” John croaks, surprised. “No, never. Surgeons are never sent that deep into the country. Too dangerous to lose medical personnel in heavy battle.”</p><p>Sherlock tilts his head just barely, in that very specific way that means he’s listening and hoping for more.</p><p>“I was sent mostly to forward operating bases,” he continues. “Those with hospitals. We’d treat what we could there and fly the more serious cases to Bastion.”</p><p>“Was that where you got shot?” Sherlock asks, not looking back at John.</p><p>John sits up in the bed, sensing the change of mood in the room. This has to be the first time Sherlock has ever asked him anything,<em> anything</em>, about his service or injury. John was sure Sherlock had seen the files—whatever files Mycroft must have on him—years ago.</p><p>
  <em>Why ask now?</em>
</p><p>“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Just outside FOB Hamidullah. A chinook carrying two fatally wounded soldiers was about to land, and we were ambushed as we left the gate to wheel them in. There was a shootout. I got hit. Bill Murray had to drag me in with them. It was quite a surprise, Hamidullah was never attacked before. Guess I got lucky.”</p><p>Sherlock steals a scandalized glance, and John can’t help but cheekily smile at him; he’d managed to somehow rattle him with his morbid cynicism. That’s a once in a lifetime occurrence.</p><p>“Then they shipped me off to a hospital in Oman and that was it,” John sighs. “Never set foot in Afghanistan again.”</p><p>The room is so quiet John can hear Sherlock swallowing, can hear the man’s brain whirring like a steam engine.</p><p>“Do you miss it?” Sherlock finally asks.</p><p>“What, the war?”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t respond, only looks down, never turning his eyes in John’s direction.</p><p>“Sometimes,” he confesses. “Sometimes I miss… some parts of it.”</p><p>Sherlock breathes out a heavy, indecipherable sigh. “...I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s alright,” John says after a moment, his brows furrowed.</p><p><em>Because it is, in a way, isn’t it? </em>He thinks. <em>Not six months later I ran into you. And that was alright.</em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“John.” Sherlock calls him, still in his chair. There’s no sign Sherlock had moved at all since he’d dozed off again, the warmth of the bed enveloping him. “John, wake up.”</p><p>“Yeah, ‘m up,” he says, mountains of papers scattering everywhere around him. He’d barely finished reading two reports so far.</p><p>“It’s late. Go home.”</p><p>“No, it’s alright,” John says. “I can stay. I want to read some more.”</p><p>“John—”</p><p>“I moved my shifts around, Sherlock. I’m spending all morning with Rosie tomorrow,” he assures him, insistent. Without even noticing, he digs himself even deeper into the uncomfortable mattress, searching for a better angle. “It’s fine. I can stay.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“They’re both asleep,” Sherlock's voice penetrates through another of John’s dreams, the lumpy bed doing nothing to prevent John from falling asleep again and again.</p><p>“Hmm,” John grunts, blinking to wake himself up. “When’s the memorial, by the way?”</p><p>“Next week,” Sherlock stands and stretches, his neck making a loud creaking noise. “Friday.”</p><p>John grabs his phone, scrolling through his calendar. “Yeah, seems good. I’ll tell Mary.”</p><p>He watches Sherlock stepping slowly towards the evidence wall, staring at it intently. “I had a thought, by the way,” John mumbles as he covers his eyes with the crook of his neck, half asleep already. “David, in the attic.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Sherlock’s voice is distracted; he’s only half listening.</p><p>“He could be praying.”</p><p>“What?” He hears Sherlock’s entire body turning in surprise as his words reach him.</p><p>“I noticed the times in your notes,” John explains. “Muslims pray five times a day. The hours make sense. Could be Jewish prayers too, but they pray three times a day, so Muslim prayers make more sense.”</p><p>“But he’s Catholic,” Sherlock says, his brows furrowed. “A rather devout one.”</p><p>“So? People convert.” He shrugs again. “It happens. Religious people sometimes find themselves drawn rather strongly to another religion.”</p><p>Sherlock runs back to the evidence wall, his energy levels back to normal with this new possibility. John hesitates for a beat before he speaks again.</p><p>“That’s what you’re investigating, aren’t you?” John asks. “You think he switched sides or something?”</p><p>Sherlock stops moving entirely and looks up at John again; he can’t read his expression at all for a second or two before Sherlock nods in confirmation.</p><p>“The man survived by the skin of his teeth in Musa Qala, Sherlock. You can’t assume disloyalty based on religion alone.”</p><p>Sherlock turns to look at him, his eyes sharp. “Can you assume that about someone who’d spent the last nine years living with Sulman Abu Nazir?”</p><p>“What?” John’s blood freezes. “So… you think Abu Nazir recruited him?”</p><p>“According to my best asset in Gaza, yes.”</p><p>“Jesus.”</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Why aren’t you going home, John?” Sherlock stands stock-still with his hands in his pockets as he stares out the window.</p><p>John clears his throat.</p><p>
  <em>Because I only just got you back and I don’t know how long I’ll have this time.</em>
</p><p>“Better than the sofa.” He shrugs, attempting a careless smile.</p><p>“Where does Mary think you are?”</p><p>“She knows where I am,” he says. “Well, not literally, but she knows I’m with you. That I’m, you know, working on a case with you.”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t respond; he takes his hands out of his pockets and moves to clasp them tightly behind his back.</p><p>“She doesn’t care,” John says, and the lie slips out, smoothly and easily. Why not, really? Their lives had always been made up of lies piled up on each other. John lies to Sherlock, Sherlock lies to Mary, Mary lies to John. What’s another one?</p><p>Sherlock glances back at him over his shoulder, his eyes narrow and accusatory. John’s breath catches, a vague sense of defiance climbing up his throat, challenging Sherlock to say more, to question him, his choices, his heart.</p><p>He doesn’t.</p><p>Sherlock never does.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mycroft's voice infiltrates John’s consciousness, shedding the cobwebs of a peaceful slumber.</p><p>“Rise and shine, gentlemen,” Mycroft says and clears his throat loudly.</p><p>John wakes, the morning light blinding him. He moves the dossier covering his eyes with a grunt, trying to make sense of the surrounding room. When he looks to his side he finds Sherlock on the other side of the bed; he must have sneaked in some time during the night without waking him.</p><p>“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, his face buried in a pillow.</p><p>John looks up at Mycroft, his sharp, inquisitive eyes scanning the scene on the bed. Slowly, reluctantly, John wipes his face but doesn’t move, hoping that Sherlock’s dismissal might actually do the trick for once.</p><p>“Lovely as always.” Mycroft shuffles his legs, resting on his cane. “Do get a move on. We’ve been summoned.”</p><p>“I think there’s been a mistake, Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbles. “I do not get <em>summoned</em>.”</p><p>“Christ, I have to go,” John says, looking at his watch. He sits up, accepting his fate, then looks at Mycroft again with a sigh. “What’s going on?”</p><p>“Sherlock’s good deed has not gone unnoticed by my colleagues,” Mycroft says. “They’d like to thank him. I’ve arranged a meeting.”</p><p>“Your colleagues can fuck off, too,” Sherlock huffs, turning his back on his brother.</p><p>“You’re being exonerated from Magnussen’s murder,” Mycroft says.</p><p>Sherlock opens his eyes in surprise. “What?”</p><p>“You’re welcome.”</p><p>“Sherlock, come on, wake up. That’s amazing news,” John says, crossing his arms.</p><p>“Indeed.” Mycroft nods.</p><p>“I know you’re not entirely familiar with social mores,” John says, “but being exonerated from a cold-blooded murder is generally considered a good thing.”</p><p>“Is it?”</p><p>“Did you know that the Queen offered Knighthood again, for your role in bringing the Corporal back?” Mycroft asks over his shoulder.</p><p>“Oh now, we can’t have that,” Sherlock says as he grabs his toiletries from a bag under the bed and heads for the shower.</p><p>“Thought you might say that,” Mycroft calls out from his place in the sitting room. “Had you downgraded to not having a sword hanging over your head at any given moment, instead.”</p><p>John huffs and exchanges a knowing look with Mycroft as he turns to wash up in the small kitchenette. Mycroft steps closer to the shower, knocking on the door with his umbrella.</p><p>“A shave would do you good, brother,” Mycroft calls loudly in a condescending voice, speaking to the semi-open door. “Wouldn’t hurt to look presentable.”</p><p>The door slams loudly in Mycroft’s face, who frowns at John’s cheeky grin.</p><p>“I like it,” John says, wiping his face. “The beard.”</p><p>“Do you, now?”</p><p>“Christ, I’m so late,” John says as he turns to leave. “Great news for once, Mycroft. Tell him I’ll be back tomorrow night.”</p><p>“Hmmm.” Mycroft smiles tightly, scanning John from head to toe. “Have a good day. Do give my best to Mrs. Watson.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Some army lingo:<br/>RTI means resistance to torture training.<br/>A chinook is a helicopter.<br/>FOB means forward operating base is a secured forward operational level military position, commonly a military base, that is used to support strategic goals and tactical objectives.</p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlYf1GjMnGw">The siege of Musa Qala</a> was a true siege, and the documentary linked to here was both a stunning piece of Afghan war history for me, as well a tough reminder of what soldiers in Afghanistan had to endure. Though I never served in the British Army, I do have my own experience of military service and the details of the siege were shocking to learn. Please note - the soliders who were there in Musa Qala are true survivors, heroes, and though I used their story here I by no way mean any disrespect to them by placing David there with them. David is a made up character and implies nothing regarding the real soldiers who bravely fought there.</p><p>Disclaimer: Never served in the British Army, never fought in Afghanistan - if any of the details in this chapter are incorrect, it's due to lack of any actual experience in both and I apologize. I did my best in terms of research.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Hidden Truths / Nadi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Phew! We're about a third into Part 1. This party is only getting started! I hope you're enjoying the case fic so far.<br/>I edited this chapter quite heavily post beta. If you find something terribly disastrous it's my fault, not my betas'.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Hidden Truths (The Cabinet Office, London)</strong>
</p><p>“That’s not what happened at all,” Sherlock says solemnly, chewing on a gingernut as he watches the doctored video playing on repeat.</p><p>“It is now,” Mycroft says.</p><p>“Remarkable,” Lady Smallwood says. “How did you do it?”</p><p>“We have some very talented people working here,” Sir Edwin replies, smugness radiating from him like rays of light. “Rest assured we have the tech to, er... doctor a bit of security footage.”</p><p>Sherlock swings his leg with a suffering sigh, bored with the charade.</p><p>“That is now the official version,” Sir Edwin continues. “The version anyone we want to will see.”</p><p>“No need to go to the trouble of getting some sort of official pardon,” Lady Smallwood says. “You’re off the hook, Mr Holmes. You’re home and dry.”</p><p>Mycroft folds his arms and looks sternly down at his brother.</p><p>“Okay, cheers!” Sherlock stands up, but Mycroft pushes him down back in his chair with a growl.</p><p>“We thought you might be a bit more appreciative of this gesture.” Lady Smallwood says, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“Oh, please,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I did you all a favour by killing him. He’d had you lot under his thumb for years. If anything, you should be thanking me.”</p><p>Sherlock stands and grabs another biscuit, entirely pleased with himself over their gaping mouths and shocked gasps. “You seem so adamant about overlooking the real problem here.”</p><p>“What’s that?” Sir Edwin asks as Sherlock sits down.</p><p>“It appears that you have a mole. Someone gave Magnussen all that information, after all.” His eyes move quickly between the people sitting at the table in front of him. “A real whodunnit. I do love those.”</p><p>“One problem at a time, Mr. Holmes.” Lady Smallwood clears her throat loudly. “Now, I’ve asked Mrs. Norbury here to coordinate your next assignment.”</p><p>“As far as possible from home, just as you asked.” The old lady nods and smiles warmly.</p><p>“Mrs. Norbury, is it?” Sherlock asks. “Did you make these?”</p><p>“Erm...” she hesitates, looking uncomfortably at Lady Smallwood as if asking for permission to speak. “Why yes. It’s an old family recipe. Do you like them?”</p><p>“<em>Love</em> them. Much better than my housekeeper’s. Do you add—”</p><p>“My brother requires some time in London before moving on to his next assignment,” Mycroft cuts Sherlock off with an apologetic smile. “To re-energize, as it were. He’ll keep a low profile, of course.”</p><p>“No cases, then?” Sir Edwin asks.</p><p>“We think it’s best he continues to lay low as Peter Knight for now, at least until his next assignment.”</p><p>“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Sir Edwin says. “Too bad you refused the Knighthood, though.”</p><p>“My brother believes he is undeserving of one,” Mycroft blurts quickly before any of Sherlock’s unfiltered words leave his mouth.</p><p>“Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind watching Corporal Stewart getting his Victoria Cross,” Lady Smallwood says.</p><p>“What?” Sherlock freezes mid-chew.</p><p>“Naturally, the Queen would like to thank the Corporal for his sacrifice,” Lady Smallwood says. “He deserves it.”</p><p>“Oh, he’s a nice young man, isn’t he?” Mrs. Norbury coos from the back.</p><p>“Indeed he is,” Mycroft smiles sourly, exchanging a worried look with Sherlock. “When is this joyous event supposed to take place?”</p><p>“Not sure,” Lady Smallwood says, her voice turning into an excited whisper. “I was told the Duke of Edinburgh requested a private meeting with him afterwards.”</p><p>“<em>Oh!</em>” Mrs. Norbury exclaims in delight.</p><p>Mycroft and Sherlock’s worried exchange of glances goes unnoticed most of the phones in the room chirp simultaneously.</p><p>“Well, well, well,” Sir Edwin says.</p><p>“What?” Sherlock looks up at Mycroft. “What is it?”</p><p>“It appears that Yasser Khoury, Stewart’s guard in Gaza, was captured alive this morning.”</p><p>“Khoury?” Sherlock asks, his body tensing. “Alive? Who captured him?”</p><p>“The Egyptians. He was trying to infiltrate their border with his family.”</p><p>“Wh—” Sherlock is interrupted when Mrs. Norbury clears her throat.</p><p>“I’m sorry ma’am,” she says. “We really must run off to our next briefing.”</p><p>“You go on and start without me,” Lady Smallwood says. “This is far more important, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am,” the elderly woman says and leaves the room in haste.</p><p>“What an excellent turn of events!” Sir Edwin says and looks at Sherlock and Mycroft.</p><p>“Indeed,” Lady Smallwood nods. “Would you like to join in on the interrogation, Mr. Holmes?”</p><p>“Yes,” both Mycroft and Sherlock say simultaneously, exchanging a look of confusion.</p><p>“Consider it done.” She nods and stands, thanking them as she leaves the room.</p><p>“Good to have you back with us, Mr. Holmes,” Sir Edwin says and shakes their hands. “Both of you.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“He’s supposed to be dead,” Sherlock whispers to Mycroft as they walk hurriedly down an empty corridor. “I saw his name in the files.”</p><p>“Which files?”</p><p>“Mossad files,” Sherlock says. “His body was identified by his family.”</p><p>“Maybe it’s not him,” Mycroft suggests. “Could it be that somebody’s using his name?”</p><p>“One would have to be an idiot to pick Khoury’s name,” Sherlock scoffs. “Abu Nazir’s right hand, considered to be dead, turns up alive away from Abu Nazir? That’s like placing a huge bounty over your own head. No.” He shakes his head. “Maybe his family lied in hopes of buying themselves enough time to escape to Egypt.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“I think we should bring Stewart in,” Sherlock says. “To the interrogation. To confirm who this person is, see what they tell us about each other. With any luck, Khoury might just be the one to give Stewart away.”</p><p>“One can only hope.”</p><p>“When do you think he’ll be here?”</p><p>“I’ll have to check,” Mycroft says. “I imagine it might take a few days. The Egyptians will want a piece of him as well, I’m sure.”</p><p>“Secure some time for me with him,” Sherlock nods and heads for the door at the end of the corridor. “I like doing these things my own way.”</p><p>“Yes, I know.” Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Do be careful.”</p><p>“Be careful?” Sherlock turns to look back, surprised. “What on Earth are you on about?”</p><p>“Be careful who you share your bed with at night,” Mycroft warns him. “You’ve sent yourself to the ends of the world in order to avoid all this… drama.”</p><p>“How dare y-” Sherlock scoffs, “<em>you</em> were the one who insisted on asking him to work on this case!”</p><p>“Well, I certainly didn’t imagine-”</p><p>“And you just had me exonerated, essentially taking away any reason for them to keep employing me much longer.” Sherlock moves towards Mycroft, towering over him. “What are you playing at?”</p><p>“Nothing at all,” Mycroft glares back, unflinching. “Just making sure you have something to return to if you ever change your mind.”</p><p>“Why don’t you leave John Watson to me, <em>brother dear</em>,” Sherlock snarls, heading for the door and shutting it angrily. “And focus on finding the mole in your so-called ‘Secret Service’.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Hey.” Alison’s voice rings through Sherlock’s headphones a few days later, dragging him away from a heap of documents detailing Yasser Khoury’s biography and questionable career choices.</p><p>“Finally found a pack of Typhoo tea at the shops.” She approaches David, rubbing his back and putting down a cup of tea next to him.</p><p>“‘Typhoo?’” David laughs with surprise. “They still make this? I can’t believe you remembered.”</p><p>“Are you kidding?” She smiles back. “How could I forget?”</p><p>“Hmmm.” David hums in satisfaction as he takes a sip from the warm beverage.</p><p>“How’s it going?”</p><p>“It isn’t,” David sighs, shaking his head. Much like Sherlock, he’s been crouching over a notepad for the last hour, writing and tearing pages out, one after the other.</p><p>“You’ll get there.” She smiles warmly.</p><p>“Easy for you to say, English Lit.” He snickers. “Maybe I should just tell Rachel I can’t do it. I think it’s… I think it’s too soon.”</p><p>“Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s no one to impress there. Just us and your mates. Write what you feel, what you would have liked him to know, maybe. Or some memories. Memories are always good.”</p><p>David blinks, his smile dropping. “No, they’re not.”</p><p>She looks at him intently for a bit, then squeezes his hand and leaves the room. Sherlock’s eyes follows her around the house in the camera feed, pulling a box out from the back of a dresser.</p><p>“What’s this?” David asks as she returns and hands him the box.</p><p>“They sent this with the rest of your stuff about a year ago.” Alison says.</p><p>“Oh,” David croaks, his forehead wrinkling in confusion. “I… A year ago?”</p><p>“Yes,” she nods. “I thought it was weird, too. Maybe it popped up in some storage unit. Or maybe things were found once they left Afghanistan. Never mind that. Open it.”</p><p>Sherlock frowns in concentration; David stares at the box as if it’s a ticking time bomb, suddenly ashen.</p><p>“Open it.” She urges him with a warm smile.</p><p>David opens the box hesitantly, looking at her as he does. Sherlock moves closer to the screen in an attempt to see a bit more. Once the box is open, David slowly pulls out photos, pieces of letters; things he must have kept in his personal kit at the compound before he was captured.</p><p>“God, look at us,” David says, sorting through photographs, touching them gently. Alison smiles back. “Oh, that Rugby final.” He laughs and shakes his head. “We lost that one. We were absolutely rubbish.”</p><p>“See?” She pats his hand. “You do have good memories.”</p><p>David exhales in relief and nods. “Yeah.”</p><p>Alison watches David intently for a while as he browses through the few items in the box, smiling distractedly. “David?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“We have a lot to talk about, you and I.”</p><p>David freezes, not raising his eyes to look at her.</p><p>“It’s been so long, and so much has happened,” she continues. “For both of us. We’ll have to talk about it, eventually.”</p><p>When David doesn’t respond, she pats his hand and smiles again. “I’m off to bed,” she says softly. “Are you coming?”</p><p>“I think…” David starts and smiles, one that doesn’t reach his eyes and picks up the pen again. “I think I’ll give it another try.”</p><p>“You have a long day tomorrow, don’t you?” She asks. “Didn’t they call you for another debrief?”</p><p>“Yeah.” David nods with a sigh.</p><p>“What’s it about?”</p><p>“They didn’t say.” He shrugs.</p><p>“All right, goodnight.” She says. “Don’t stay up too late.”</p><p>It’s only when Alison’s footsteps are heard on the stairs that David’s smile falls unnaturally, and a big, panicky breath leaves his lungs. He listens intently, waiting to hear the bedroom door closing. When it does, David carefully removes the top part of the box to reveal a bottom compartment.</p><p>Sherlock blinks in surprise, angry at his lack of control over the camera. He takes a quick screenshot of the image on the screen and zooms in on it as David browses through the various items inside the secret compartment; more photos, more pieces of paper, small square aluminium packets.</p><p>Squinting his eyes, the items begin to reveal themselves to Sherlock.</p><p>When he finally makes sense of them he leans back in his chair, already adding this small bit of information to the puzzle.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Nadi (MI6 safehouse, Crouch End, London)</strong>
</p><p>“Corporal Stewart, welcome,” Sir Edwin says, shaking David’s hand. “I hope you’re settling back successfully.”</p><p>“Define ‘successfully’.” David smiles tightly, looking around the room nervously. Mycroft watches him from the back of the room; the odds that Stewart might remember him from his first debrief is slim, and he’d like to keep it that way.</p><p>“Are you catching up on everything you missed?”</p><p>“I’m trying to. A lot of things change in a span of a decade,” David says. “Have you heard about this YouTube?”</p><p>“I have,” Edwin smiles politely. “It’s the bane of my existence.”</p><p>“Ah,” David laughs. “Of course.”</p><p>“Thank you for doing this.”</p><p>“What is ‘this’, exactly?” David asks, hesitation in his voice. “I thought I’d given the army everything you needed.”</p><p>“You did,” Edward nods. “However there’s been a significant development in our investigation into your capture.”</p><p>“You’re…” David shuffles his legs and clears his throat. “Still investigating that?”</p><p>“Of course,” Edwin says. “We’re doing everything we can to prevent it from happening again and also, hopefully, bring those responsible for it to justice. That’s why I think you’ll appreciate being called here today. Do sit down.”</p><p>“Thank you,” David says as he takes the offered seat.</p><p>“Would you like anything to drink?” Edwin asks. “Tea?”</p><p>“I’m fine, thank you.”</p><p>“Let’s begin, then.” Edwin nods at Mrs. Norbury who turns a screen on, showing a man sitting in the adjacent interrogation room, his face covered up with a sack. On the other side of the table sits Sherlock, tapping his fingers impatiently.</p><p>“That’s…” David starts, recognizing Sherlock.</p><p>“That’s my colleague, on the right.” Edwin nods. “You’ve met him. As for the other man…”</p><p>Edwin presses a button before he speaks. “Go ahead, we’re ready.”</p><p>A guard moves in the room and takes the sack off the other man’s head. He’s beaten up, scruffy and dirty, but sits calmly with his eyes closed.</p><p>“Do you know this man?” Edwin asks, eyeing David.</p><p>“Bloody hell,” David stands up from his chair abruptly, his entire body spasming with sudden anger. “Yeah, I know him. He was my guard in Gaza.”</p><p>“Do you remember his name?”</p><p>“Is he here?” David demands, pointing at a door. “In there?”</p><p>“Sit down, please,” Edwin says. “Do you remember his name, Corporal?”</p><p>“They… they called him Nadi.” David sits down, still rattled.</p><p>Edwin presses the button again, his voice travelling inside the interrogation room, aimed at Sherlock.</p><p>“Recognition confirmed.” He turns and speaks to David again. “This man’s name is Yasser Khoury. He was captured last week and brought here for further investigation.”</p><p>Sherlock crosses his legs, leaning back in his chair. They watch the silence in the interrogation room for a long moment before David speaks again, his breath shallow and his skin glimmering with sweat.</p><p>“What’s Peter doing?”</p><p>“He’s waiting to see if Khoury will speak first, though I doubt he will,” Edwin says. “Khoury was captured by the Egyptian army as he was trying to infiltrate Egypt illegally. They turned him over to us.”</p><p>“What did he tell them?”</p><p>“I’m afraid I can’t share operational information with you.”</p><p>“Does he know where Abu Nazir is?”</p><p>“I can’t say.”</p><p>“Then what exactly am I doing here?”</p><p>“We needed confirmation on his identity, which you just provided us.” Edwin nods. “And to help us scare him into talking. We need you to feed Mr. Knight information only you know. Can you do that?”</p><p>David exhales nervously, then takes a big breath. “I can try,” he looks down at his hands. “Are you going to torture him?”</p><p>“Of course not, Corporal,” Edwin says assuredly, shaking his head.</p><p>David clears his throat again. “What is it that you think he knows?”</p><p>“Like I said, I can’t—”</p><p>“Share any classified information,” David cuts him off dryly. “I get it.”</p><p>“Put these on, please,” Edwin says and hands him a pair of headphones. “Tap the microphone to let Mr. Knight know you’re ready.”</p><p>David does as instructed and Sherlock finally moves, leans forward over the table, moving closer to Khoury.</p><p>“Do you speak English?” Sherlock asks coolly. “Hebrew?”</p><p>Edwin looks at David, prompting him to speak.</p><p>“He spoke some English to me,” David says. “Not sure about Hebrew.”</p><p>“I’m afraid my Hebrew is rather rusty, and I know you speak English, so we’ll stick with that.” Sherlock says. “Are you a religious man?”</p><p>“He is,” David says. “He prayed outside the room they had me locked in. I used to watch him through a crack under the door.”</p><p>“Of course you’re religious,” Sherlock says, locking his fingers on the table. “Maybe even devout. Do you know what <em>devout</em> means?”</p><p>Khoury sits completely motionless, looking beyond Sherlock’s shoulders. Mycroft had seen this before; this is a man who chooses to zone his investigator out. Just like British soldiers, Abu Nazir’s people were trained not to break in interrogation.</p><p>“Do you know this man?” Sherlock asks and pulls David’s photograph out of an envelope that’s been sitting on the table. “Yes, you do. You know him well. You were his guard.”</p><p>“Only in Gaza, though,” David says. “Not in Afghanistan.”</p><p>“You were his guard during his time in Gaza,” Sherlock repeats David’s words. “You were never in Afghanistan. You were recruited by Abu Nazir once he and his people escaped Afghanistan.”</p><p>Khoury blinks calmly, staring into thin air. Sherlock's words appear not to reach him at all.</p><p>“Quite a unique position, being the guard of a highly valuable POW.” Sherlock moves back in his chair, placing his hands under his nose in a deduction position. “How did you get that job? A British soldier would be Abu Nazir's most precious asset and yet you, a lowly minion, were trusted with keeping him alive. Why is that?”</p><p>To Mycroft’s surprise, Khoury blinks.</p><p>“Hmmm.” Sherlock smiles, realizing he’s onto something. “What did he have on you? Let’s see. Your oldest son. Died smuggling drugs into Syria. No. That’s not it.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “You have a second family in Egypt, a wife you haven’t seen in years, and that’s why you tried to leave for Egypt—you have a small house somewhere near the border.”</p><p>Sherlock shakes his head slowly, smugly. It’s like watching a predator expertly approaching its hopeless prey, Mycroft thinks.</p><p>“No, that’s not it either,” Sherlock takes a big breath for additional dramatic effect. “How about.... <em>Oh</em>. You’re well-connected, aren’t you? The Khourys are the strongest clan in Gaza. You make up the elite of Hamas leadership.”</p><p>Khoury looks away in disdain.</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock smiles. “He caught you in a compromising situation and hung it over your head. You had sex with someone. Someone’s wife; my guess would be one of your remote cousins, a powerful one, maybe the most powerful one in your clan—a married woman, whom you seduced in hopes of extortion later. But he had photographs, or some other proof, and he used that to buy your loyalty.”</p><p>Khoury’s face contorts in shock, his breath racing with fear.</p><p>“Yes, extortion. That’s his MO. He used them to extort you for your loyalty.” Sherlock huffs. “That’s ironic.”</p><p>“Christ,” David says, shocked, and looks at Edwin.</p><p>“He does that.” Edwin nods with pride.</p><p>“Is everything he just said true?”</p><p>“If he said it, it must be.”</p><p>“Quite a bargaining chip to hold over your head,” Sherlock continues in the interrogation room. “Who knows where this evidence is now that Abu Nazir has disappeared? Might be quite useful for a terrorist on the run.”</p><p>Khoury swallows loudly and closes his eyes in pain.</p><p>“Or maybe <em>we </em>have the evidence, for all you know. You don’t, though, do you?”</p><p>Something clicks in Khoury’s eyes, and they finally focus on Sherlock’s. The detective goes in for the kill.</p><p>“Did you torture this man?” He points at David’s photo again.</p><p>“He stuck a screwdriver in my thigh and twisted it for hours upon hours,” David says. “Then urinated on the wound.”</p><p>“You stuck a screwdriver into his thigh and urinated on the wound,” Sherlock says. “So you’re a religious, adulterous torturer. Scum of the Earth. Can’t be entirely sure anyone will miss you. Besides your family, of course. Do you think your wife and children are still alive?”</p><p>Khoury’s eyes open quickly, searching for Sherlock’s as if trying to decide if he’s lying.</p><p>“Who knows what might happen if the Egyptians send them back to Gaza without you,” Sherlock continues. “Someone might notice you’re not with them. One person in particular. Abu Nazir. Who, as you and I both know, is an extremely… <em>vicious</em> mastermind. Do you know what happened to his second in command who disappeared when Abu Nazir had to leave Afghanistan?”</p><p>Khoury swallows loudly again.</p><p>“His oldest son was taken out of his bedroom one night. Weeks later his family began receiving his body parts in small plastic bags. Not to mention what happened to his parents, to his wives, to his poor brothers and sisters.” Sherlock leans forward and spreads additional photos all over the table. The contents are so gruesome Khoury looks away in disgust.</p><p>Sherlock lets Khoury stew for a good five minutes before speaking again.</p><p>“We can protect your family, Mr. Khoury, but we’re working against the clock. Abu Nazir isn’t a patient man, and he doesn’t miss much.”</p><p>Sherlock waits for a beat, then calls out in the direction of the door.</p><p>“You may come in now.”</p><p>Mrs. Norbury hesitantly steps into the room, holding a notepad and a crayon. She seems utterly timorous, shaking as she approaches Khoury. When Khoury glances straight into her eyes and smiles an evil smile she drops the notepad and rushes to pick it up again.</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s quite alright,” Sherlock says impatiently as she turns to leave the room. “Thank you. When you’re ready to make a deal, write down everything you know in this notepad. Names, phone numbers, locations. Could be in Arabic or English, doesn’t matter.” Sherlock stands and leaves the table. “Given everything Abu Nazir has on you, I’d do it sooner rather than later.”</p><p>Sherlock heads for the door, ready to leave Khoury behind.</p><p>“You’ve got the wrong man,” Khoury murmurs in English, spoken with a heavy Arabic accent. Sherlock stops in his tracks. Mycroft gasps, straining his ears to listen.</p><p>“What’s that?” Sherlock turns around, surprised.</p><p>“You’re not seeing what’s in front of your eyes,” Khoury says, a challenging glint in his eyes. “<em>Afealaha min ajli alhabi</em>.”</p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p>Khoury shrugs carelessly, leaving Sherlock hanging. He turns his head and closes his eyes, blocking the world out once again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“What happens now?” David asks as Sherlock steps out of the interrogation room, passing them by without a word.</p><p>“Now we wait for him to break and write down everything he knows.” Edwin says.</p><p>“His family—”</p><p>“Is safe. We have them.” Edwin nods and stands up. “You’re free to go, Corporal. Thank you for your cooperation.”</p><p>“What, that’s it?” David asks. “The man tortured me, nearly broke me, and that’s all he gets?”</p><p>“For now,” Edwin says. “He will break eventually.”</p><p>David looks around, hesitant. “Sir…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Can I go in there?” he says and points at the screen. “I want to look the bastard in the eye, show him I’m here. Show him I’m alive.”</p><p>“That’s impossible, Corporal,” Edwin says. “Surely you understand.”</p><p>“Sir…”</p><p>“You should go home,” Edwin says. “I promise you, this man will never know the taste of freedom again. You got your revenge.”</p><p>“I—” David looks at the screen tentatively. “Did Peter leave?”</p><p>“I’m afraid so,” Edwin says. “Thank you again for your help.” He pulls out a business card and hands it to David. “If you need anything, let me know. Goodbye, Corporal.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Excellent job, Mr. Holmes!” Edwin says, hurrying to catch up with Sherlock and Mycroft as they walk down the small garden just outside the safehouse. “That was brilliant.”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t say a word back, only struts hurriedly towards the waiting car.</p><p>“I’ve asked Mrs. Norbury to let us know when he breaks,” Edwin continues. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. This is the most excellent development. The Prime Minister will be delighted.”</p><p>“Well, as long as the Prime Minister is happy,” Sherlock says as he puts his gloves on and slams the back door of the car.</p><p>“For all his faults, Mycroft, of which there are many,” Edwin tells a sighing Mycroft as the car leaves the kerb, “he’s brilliant.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“‘Do it for love’.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” Sherlock asks. He wipes another droplet of water dripping from the musty stones of the old tunnel near Euston Road.</p><p>“Yeah, mate,” The boy says, a regular of his homeless network. <em>Native</em> <em>Arabic speaker, abusive father, hasn’t scored in 48 hours. </em>“It’s a very simple sentence, can’t go wrong.”</p><p>His mouth twitches into a small smile as he hands the boy a wad of notes in return for his help, thanking him as he leaves.</p><p>
  <em>Excellent.<br/>
</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock wakes with an unexplained startle the next morning, still wearing the previous day’s clothes. He blinks despite the blackness of the early dawn, not entirely sure when he’d fallen asleep; disoriented, he burrows further into his pillow and turns onto his side with a sigh when he bumps into a warm lump crowding the other end of the bed.</p><p>John.</p><p>He blinks in surprise, this unexpected development catching his brain unprepared.</p><p>John wasn’t at the bolthole at all when he came back last night; he certainly wasn’t here when Sherlock crawled into the ratty folding bed, his brain finally succumbing to a much-needed rest after working on overdrive over Khoury’s investigation.</p><p>
  <em>So John must have…</em>
</p><p>He must have come in, found Sherlock dead to the world and—</p><p>He looks at John’s chest, rising and falling in deep slumber. He takes a big breath, John’s warm and familiar scent filling his nostrils. It’s simple chemistry, smell particles, but it breaks Sherlock’s defences in a split second. His mind finally succumbs and accepts the meaning of every single signal John had been sending his way since returning.</p><p>John is lost. He’s lost in his marriage, he’s lost in his work; he’s been attaching himself to the better parts of fatherhood with angry determination—and his anger shines bright like lighthouse in the dark. Sherlock assumed John would be angry with him upon his return, would refuse to see him again after his second departure. Instead, he’d sought Sherlock out the minute he’d heard he was back and now here he was, sleeping in his bed while his wife and daughter were on the other side of London.</p><p>He closes his eyes in despair. It’s always so terrible when reality destroys his well-made arguments, his self-assured plans. Because John insists that there can be no more lies between them, and that’s impossible.</p><p>All Sherlock has, all he’d ever had, are lies. A web of lies he’d entangled himself in so deeply for so many years, it’s hard to tell what’s true and what isn’t. If John insists on that, he won’t be able to give him what he wants. Not now, and not ever.</p><p>He’s startled by his phone buzzing; curses when he recognizes the caller.</p><p>“What?” he whispers and moves to leave the bed quickly, hastily.</p><p>“Khoury’s dying,” Mycroft says coolly, the sounds of people rushing around him in the background.</p><p>“What?” he snarls. “What do you mean he’s dying?”</p><p>“He slashed his veins,” Mycroft says. “They’re working on him now, though I doubt he’ll survive.”</p><p>“How? For fuck’s sake, Mycroft!” he yells, full of rage as his eyes search wildly for his shoes. “Send me a car, now!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter is a short interlude, a throwback to the past in this story's universe - not a full chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. interlude II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He raised his eyes from the picture to the man sitting solemnly in front of him. His entire body shook violently, uncontrollably.</p><p>It was hard to say how he was shaking at that point, really. He’d been starving, aching, screaming, crying—wishing for death for so long, his body should have shut off already.</p><p>It hadn’t. He had realized quite early, to his horror, that they’d never let him die. They’d let him suffer, but never die. </p><p>He was far too valuable.</p><p>“You see?” The man spoke slowly, softly,  in a perfect Oxford accent. “I did this for you.”</p><p>“For me?” He closed his eyes in defeat. 
</p><p>“Yes, for you. Your secret is safe with me now. The English will never know.” The man handed him another picture. A blurry, black and white picture, but its contents were clean enough to cause bile to rise up in his throat. “Trust in Allah, my son, in the new life I’m offering you.”
</p><p>The body in the picture laid twisted on the ground, the man’s eyes empty and soulless.</p><p>
<em>For me.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Happy Families / Captain Aldridge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Happy Families</strong>
</p><p>“A piece of razor blade,” Sir Edwin says as Mycroft and Sherlock enter the interrogation room they’d only left last night.</p><p>It’s a gory scene. The floor is covered with newly dried blood, the smell overpowering inside the room. Khoury’s shoes and clothes are spread haphazardly around his body—discarded carelessly by the paramedics who treated him.</p><p>“How did this happen, sir?” Lady Smallwood asks, her voice tight.</p><p>“He must have had it on his person,” Edwin says with a sigh. “The heel of one of his shoes was peeled back.”</p><p>“How is that possible?” Mycroft asks. “He’d gone through at least four full body searches.”</p><p>Sherlock paces the room, his magnifying glass in hand as he examines every inch of Khoury’s body and the interrogation desk.</p><p>“One of our sweepers might have missed it,” Edwin says.</p><p>“Or someone might have passed it along,” Lady Smallwood says.</p><p>Sherlock tilts his head slightly, surprised by Lady Smallwood’s suggestion.</p><p>“Who would do that?” Edwin asks.</p><p>“He was ready to talk.” Sherlock interrupts them and looks at the group, suddenly very aware of Mycroft’s inscrutable glare directed straight at him. “What?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Mycroft says, his voice tense.</p><p>“Was he?” Lady Smallwood moves closer and looks at the notepad Khoury was given the previous day, the crayon sitting next to it.</p><p>“Yes.” Sherlock shows her the papers. “He wrote down eight names. Family members, and here—an email address.”</p><p>“Write this down, please, Mrs. Norbury.” Lady Smallwood squints at the barely legible handwriting.</p><p>“Yes, ma’am.”</p><p>“We should polygraph everyone that came into contact with Khoury,” Mycroft says, “and I’ll have the tech team look up this email address.”</p><p>“Yes,” Edwin says and heads for the door.</p><p>“Every guard that searched him, both the afternoon and night shifts,” Mycroft continues, “as well as the driver who drove him up here. You too, Sherlock.”</p><p>Sherlock nods wordlessly.</p><p>“And Corporal Stewart,” Edwin says.</p><p>“What?” Mycroft and Sherlock exclaim simultaneously.</p><p>Edwin turns back, his brows furrowed with surprise at their response.</p><p>“Stewart never came in physical contact with him,” Mycroft says.</p><p>Edwin clears his throat and turns towards them, his back straight. “He rang me a few hours after he left last night and asked for a short, supervised conversation with him.” </p><p>“This is... <em>highly</em> irregular, sir,” Lady Smallwood says.</p><p>“Yes, it is,” Edwin says, challenging the doubt. “As is the sacrifice the Corporal has made for this country. If I’m able to provide him one small step on a path to healing, I’m going to do just that.”</p><p>“What did he say?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“Who?” Edwin asks.</p><p>“Stewart. What did he say to Khoury when he came in?”</p><p>“I’m not sure, I wasn’t there myself. I only gave permission for a short chat, no longer than a few minutes,” Edwin says. “We can ask for the recording to be processed and sent to us.”</p><p>“I’ll arrange the polygraph tests.” Mycroft nods.</p><p>“Thank you, Mycroft,” Edwin says and finally leaves.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>John senses, more than sees or hears, Sherlock’s approaching storm as he enters the bolthole hours later. The man had left yelling at Mycroft about incompetence and somebody dying.</p><p>“Hey,” John says, opting for a casual tone. The warm smile that accompanies it, though, is genuine. “All right?”</p><p>Sherlock's grumbles are the only response he gets, indicating just how distracted the man is.</p><p>“What happened this morning?” John asks. “You said somebody was dying?”</p><p>“Khoury, Stewart’s guard in Gaza. Not dying, dead,” Sherlock says as he throws his jacket haphazardly across the room. “I questioned him yesterday. Slashed his veins.”</p><p>“Oh,” John says, his stomach twisting in empathy with Sherlock’s ominous anger. “How did he manage that?”</p><p>“Stewart gave it to him.”</p><p>“Stewart?”</p><p>“I think.”</p><p>“You <em>think</em>?”</p><p>“Stewart had somehow convinced Mycroft’s boss to get face time with Khoury during the night,” Sherlock says. “Mycroft and I got our hands on the security tapes. They never mentioned Stewart jumped him. He could have done it. He could have slipped him a blade.”</p><p>“Wait, so you think Khoury is—was, working with Stewart?”</p><p>“I think Khoury knew something about Stewart, and I think my threats were so convincing that he was about to talk,” Sherlock says. “Stewart was there, helping with the interrogation. I believed Khoury to be dead up until a few days ago. I imagine that Stewart might have believed the same.”</p><p>“But that doesn’t explain why Khoury actually used the blade, does it?” John says with a frown. “He didn’t force him to slash his veins.”</p><p>“But Stewart could have done it to help him avoid imprisonment.”</p><p>“Still, that wouldn’t explain how Stewart would manage to pass a razor blade past top MI6 brass.”</p><p>“No, I suppose not,” Sherlock grumbles in distracted frustration.</p><p>“Well, alright,” John says, bucking up. “Somebody else will turn up. If what you say about Stewart is true there must be others out there.”</p><p>“No, John, don’t you see?” Sherlock moans. “Khoury was the only one left from Gaza who knew anything about David’s time there. He was the key. The rest of them are conveniently dead.”</p><p>“Didn’t you say you thought he was dead, too?” John crosses his arms. “Maybe he wasn’t the only one.”</p><p>“I’m so close, John!” Sherlock says. “I’m right on the cusp of it. I have these little pieces of information, but they won’t connect, not yet—”</p><p>“Sherlock—”</p><p>“It’s right in front of me, John,” Sherlock continues. “I’m missing something, I must be—”</p><p>“Sherlock!”</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>“When was the last time you ate?”</p><p>Sherlock stops talking, looking around him, disoriented. “When was the last time you brought food?”</p><p>“Bloody hell,” John shakes his head. “Sit down.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They laugh.</p><p>Real, actual laughter.</p><p>The combination of oily, carbohydrate-rich fast food and a lovely video of Rosie pulling herself up by grabbing the sofa and smiling proudly at John’s camera does the trick. Sherlock, just like John, is sated, warm and comfortable, and if he could swap the unremarkable bolthole with the sitting room in 221b, John might actually believe they’d gone back in time to the good old days.</p><p>He’s missed this so, so much.</p><p>There’s silence now, too, but not the uncomfortable silence that filled the hours they’ve spent together so far. It’s their own brand of intimacy, the one John never knew before meeting Sherlock and will probably never know again.</p><p>“Fatherhood suits you, John.” Sherlock heaves a sigh as he leans back in his chair. “You seem happy.”</p><p>“Do I?” John blinks once, then again. The sentiment, coming from Sherlock, is lovely and unexpected. It’s also incredibly incorrect. How could anyone, let alone the world’s only consulting detective, possibly mistake John Watson to be <em>happy</em> in this place, in this time?</p><p>“Is it what you expected?” Sherlock asks. “Being a father?”</p><p>“It’s… not,” John sighs. “Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. Not at all. It’s exhausting and terrifying—”</p><p>“Terrifying?”</p><p>“Of course it’s bloody terrifying.” John swallows, searching for the right words. “I’m expected to raise this little girl and… and make sure she’s happy and healthy and…” He trails off. “I mean, I’m quite confident about keeping her healthy, that I can do. Doctor.” He concedes. “But <em>happy</em> and <em>normal</em>, that’s a lot of pressure, you know. Considering.”</p><p>“Considering what?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“Considering—<em>everything</em>.”</p><p>
  <em>Considering who her mother is. Considering who her father is. Considering the man her father escapes to every chance he has.</em>
</p><p>“Why wouldn’t she be happy?” Sherlock frowns. “She has a comfortable home and two loving parents. What more can one wish for?”</p><p>“I—” John stutters, his lips tight in bewilderment. He bites his lips nervously, clears his throat. “Have you ever considered it?” </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Being a father?” </p><p>“John.” Sherlock stares back in disbelief, looking at him as if he’s gone mad.</p><p>“What?” John asks, undeterred. “There’s nothing wrong with it if you did.”</p><p>“Honestly, John.”</p><p>“Honestly, what?” He prods when Sherlock doesn’t elaborate. “‘Cause I didn’t. I wasn’t hoping to. Never particularly liked children, really. But then Mary…” He shrugs. “I’m glad for it. She’s beautiful and lovely and every time I look at her I’m happy she’s here, but…”</p><p>Sherlock scans John's face, and then repeats the action, as if trying to determine the purpose, the direction of the conversation. “I’m not the most nurturing person.”</p><p>“That’s really only a bonus, not a requirement,” John says. “Trust me, my father was proof of that.”</p><p>“Can you imagine me as a father, John? Honestly.”</p><p>“Stop deflecting,” John insists. “It’s a simple question.”</p><p>“It’s a bizarre question, John,” Sherlock asserts, accusatory. “What’s got into you?”</p><p>“Nothing,” John says, “nothing. It’s just… there’s you, and there’s Mary, and between the two of you… every so often I get this glaring reminder that I don’t really know anything about you. None of the important stuff.”</p><p>“What kind of <em>stuff</em>?”</p><p>“Anything. Everything,” John sighs. “Mary isn’t even her real name.”</p><p>“Have you tried asking her?” Sherlock asks. “About the… stuff?”</p><p>“Of course I did, but who knows who answers those questions?” John says. “Is it Mary Morstan? Is it her, truly her? Or one of the other identities she’s had through the years? There’s no real way of knowing, is there?”</p><p>Sherlock sniffs. “What would you like to know?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “What was her favourite book growing up?”</p><p>Sherlock snorts and turns to look at John with a quizzical smile. “How is that important?”</p><p>“‘Dunno,” John shrugs again. “It’s the sort of stuff you’re supposed to know about each other.”</p><p>“What did she say?”</p><p>“<em>‘The Diary of Anne Frank’</em>.” John chuckles, twisting his face; repeating the answer is even more laughable than hearing it for the first time.</p><p>“Goodness.” Sherlock sniggers, wholeheartedly and warmly. The sight of it, the sound of Sherlock’s beautiful, deep-baritone laughter fills John’s stomach with warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time. It feels like his body is thawing from the inside, the loneliness and sadness beginning to fizzle away.</p><p>“Yeah, probably should have been more suspicious right then and there,” John says and places his cheek on his fist, tilting his head at the sight in front of him. “Hmm. What was yours?”</p><p>“Mine?”</p><p>“Yeah, yours.” John seeks Sherlock’s eyes, pleading. “It’s not like I know much more about you. You had a life before we met and I know absolutely nothing about it.”</p><p>“That hardly seems fair,” Sherlock sighs. “You haven’t exactly bared your soul about much of anything, either.”</p><p>“Didn’t think I’d need to,” he says. “I just assumed you’d already deduced everything the minute we met.”</p><p>“Surely not everything.” Sherlock looks back from beneath his lashes.</p><p>“You never really asked,” he points out, and Sherlock clears his throat in discomfort.</p><p>“‘<em>Notes from The Underground’</em>.” Sherlock looks at him with a testing look. “Dostoevsky.”</p><p>“Seriously?” John huffs, his face twisting in disbelief. Stumped is what he is, because he’s never heard of that book before. Of course a posh git like Sherlock would hunker down before bedtime with bloody Dostoevsky.</p><p>“<em>No.</em>” Sherlock allows a small, teasing smile. “‘<em>Treasure Island’.</em>”</p><p>“Ah,” John nods, pleased with the revelation. “Pirates.”</p><p>“Hmm.” Sherlock hums, and looks away before asking. “What else?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“What else do you want to know about Mary?”</p><p>“Bloody hell, I don’t know. First date stuff,” he says. “Is she a single child? Does she have any brothers or sisters?”</p><p>“I suspect she’s an only child, as well as an orphan.” Sherlock nods, deep in thought. “I don’t think that part was a lie.”</p><p>“Where do you think she’s from?”</p><p>“I’ve gone back and forth between Canada and somewhere in the Nordics,” Sherlock says, crossing his legs. “Perhaps born in one place and raised in another.”</p><p>“Do you think her parents are still alive?” He swallows. “Does Rosie have any grandparents?”</p><p>“I think she honestly doesn’t know.”</p><p>John’s heart beats far too quickly before he asks the next question. “Do you think she cares?”</p><p>“I believe she does.” Sherlock nods slowly. “I doubt she would have bothered to start a family of her own if she didn’t.”</p><p>He eyes Sherlock for a long moment, the conversation a reminder of just how much of an enigma Sherlock is; his answers seem well thought of, as if…</p><p>“You’ve thought about this,” he partly declares, partly asks. “About Mary.”</p><p>“Of course I did.” Sherlock’s brow furrows. “It was imperative that I understood who she was.”</p><p>“And did you?”</p><p>A small twitch moves across Sherlock's face; it’s one you’d have to look for in order to catch. A sign of defeat, of well-hidden self-disappointment. “Evidently not.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“All right. Enough about Mary for now,” John says eventually when the uncomfortable silence returns and lingers for far too long. “Your turn. How many languages do you speak?”</p><p>“Seven.”</p><p>“Fluently?”</p><p>“Fully fluent in French. My grandparents spoke French.” He nods thoughtfully. “Rather fluent in German. Will make do with Spanish, I suppose. Some Polish, some Russian. I can manage some street level Arabic these days.”</p><p><em>Well, spending a gap year in the Middle East will do that to you,</em> John thinks. He considers the multitudes of questions he has, the answers he needs, but best not to frighten the man now that he’s actually cooperating.</p><p>“How old were you when you started playing the violin?”</p><p>“Five.”</p><p>“Why were you kicked out of uni?”</p><p>Sherlock lips tighten in surprise, and he turns his piercing glare towards John, his eyes narrow. “I thought you claimed to know nothing about my past.”</p><p>“I lied.”</p><p>“There may have been an incident at the lab.”</p><p>“What sort of incident?”</p><p>Sherlock smiles a bright, winning smile. “I may have blown it up and blamed my professor for it.”</p><p>“WHAT?” John gasps with a mix of delight and horror.</p><p>“Oh, don’t get all sanctimonious, John,” Sherlock says dismissively. “That professor was an idiot. It may not have been his fault, but I was inspired by his idiocy.”</p><p>“Of all the things you just told me, Sherlock,”—John wipes a tear of laughter away—“that one actually made most sense.”</p><p>“Do I get to ask a question?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“Of course,” he says. “Yeah, of course.”</p><p>“How…” Sherlock starts, hesitant. “How did you and Mary meet?”</p><p>The question is so unexpected, it forces John to take a big breath in order to fight the heavy weight that lands in his stomach when the memory rises. Those days, when he’d just met her, were some of his worst, and she… she was supposed to make things better.</p><p>
  <em>She wasn’t supposed to be like that.</em>
</p><p>“At the surgery. I think a day or two after she started there,” he says and Sherlock nods in acknowledgment. “She… she was crying in the storage room.”</p><p>He shakes his head at Sherlock’s raised eyebrow.</p><p>“Said some jerk had just broken up with her. I think she meant David but who knows.”</p><p>“What did you say?”</p><p>“I asked her to pass the sterilizing wipes.” He smiles, but it’s a bitter smile. “She asked if I’d like to go for a drink later. I said no, but she kept asking, even commented on the blog. I said yes eventually. Couldn’t think of a reason not to, really.”</p><p>John studies the floor for a beat before deciding to share the next detail.</p><p>“She kissed me that night,” John continues, his voice cracking. “Surprised me, that. And it all moved quickly from there. She was insistent—you know Mary. She always gets what she wants.”</p><p>“Quite so,” Sherlock says with a small, curious smile.</p><p>“It was… nice,” John says, looking away. He clears his throat again when Sherlock doesn’t speak further. “My turn again, yeah?”</p><p>“If you must.”</p><p>“Why won’t you tell me about your scars?”</p><p>“Not this again, John.” Sherlock turns in his chair, the magic spell broken.</p><p>“Yes, again.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because it’s bloody important.”</p><p>“There’s not much to tell, John,” Sherlock says.</p><p>“Like hell there isn’t.”</p><p>“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock swallows. “I should think they speak for themselves.”</p><p>“Yes, they do,” John says. “They tell me you were nearly beaten to death.”</p><p>“It really wasn’t as terrible as you seem to make it.” Sherlock looks away. “A brush of bad luck, running into a wrong crowd in Serbia.”</p><p>“That’s not just a brush of bad luck, Sherlock,” John says. “How long did it go on?”</p><p>“I...” Sherlock starts. “I’m not sure. I lost track of time during that period.”</p><p>“Were they fresh when you came into the restaurant?” John asks. “When you saved me on bonfire night?”</p><p>“No, of course not.”</p><p>John looks at him in disbelief, Sherlock’s lie hanging between them uncomfortably.</p><p>“What else?” John asks. “What else haven’t you told me?”</p><p>“Nothing that’s worth repeating, John,” Sherlock says. "I beg you to leave it alone, John, please."</p><p>“Well, if you won’t answer me that, I get another question,” John says. "Why did you leave?”</p><p>Sherlock’s body tenses, and he stands up and moves away from John. “John—”</p><p>“Mary thinks… she thinks it’s because you got bored,” he says. “That you thought… with a baby around…”</p><p>Sherlock fiddles with an invisible piece of lint on his trousers, avoiding John’s eyes. “I could never be bored with you, John.”</p><p>“Then why?” he demands. “And don’t say Magnussen. Mycroft told me that you asked to leave.”</p><p>“I thought it’d be for the best,” Sherlock says. “You and I, John, we chose this work, we’re well aware of the risks. But if anything happened to your daughter, to Mary—”</p><p>“To Mary, who <em>shot </em>you—”</p><p>“If anything were to happen to them, John, you would blame me.” Sherlock finally blurts, the words leaving his mouth hurriedly.</p><p>“Wh—” John gasps, his brain requiring a bit too long to process Sherlock’s accusation. “How can you even… I would <em>never</em> do that.”</p><p>“Yes, you would.” Sherlock turns his resigned gaze at him. “And I wouldn’t be able to live with that, John. And neither would you.”</p><p>And it’s Sherlock’s gaze, more than his blunt words, that obliterate every sensation of comfort John had felt since their conversation started. The air in the room sours as John stares at Sherlock wordlessly, wondering yet again how very little he knows about the man, how little he understands the way his brain works.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Can you tell the age of a scar from the look of it?” Sherlock asks John a while later.</p><p>“I can give a rough estimate, yes,” John says, still exasperated. “Why do you ask?”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t answer for a long minute, his eyes moving quickly from side to side in a pattern that John knows well enough; he’s reviewing information in his own head, trying to find an answer to a question.</p><p>“I should go.” John sighs and stands, moving to clear up the now empty boxes of food. “It’s my turn with Rosie.”</p><p>Sherlock reaches for his phone and dials, waiting for the other side to pick up.</p><p>“Mycroft, I need access to the files the Germans made on David,” John hears Sherlock say. “The ones with the photos taken at Fritzlar.”</p><p>John moves quietly, distractedly, since he can’t hear Mycroft’s response.</p><p>“His scars,” Sherlock says. “David said he was still tortured in Gaza but something doesn’t add up. I’d like to have John look at the photographs, give an estimate of the age of the scars.”</p><p>Sherlock stops for another second, listening to his brother.</p><p>“Yes. All the photographs, even the ones not added to the official file. Better yet if you can get the memory card that was in that camera that day,” Sherlock continues. “David said Khoury dug a screwdriver in his thigh, but he doesn’t have a scar matching that description. I need those photos.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Are you watching the video stream from the Stewarts’ home?” Mycroft asks as Sherlock is climbing the stairs to the bolthole two days later.</p><p>“Almost there,” he says. “Billy said something was up.”</p><p>“Corporal Stewart is speaking to Elin Thøgersen, the reporter you noted.”</p><p>Sherlock rushes inside, joining Billy next to the table. He huffs in annoyance when he sees that David is just about to hang up.</p><p>“Who was that?” Alison asks David, off-screen.</p><p>David struggles with the disconnect sliding button on the iPhone screen, grumbling in anger as only someone who was left behind technologically can. “A reporter,” he says eventually.</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“What?” David asks.</p><p>“I thought you wanted nothing to do with reporters,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel hesitantly. “That you have nothing to say to them.”</p><p>“She’s offering a book deal, actually.”</p><p>“A book deal?” Alison laughs uncomfortably. “I don’t think that’s a good idea—”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Because,” she says, “You’re… you’re not yourself yet, David. You need some time to—”</p><p>“What does that mean, not myself?” David asks.</p><p>“It means, that you just came back and—”</p><p>“I may not be myself, Al, whatever that means, but I’m smart enough to see that you’re… that we… you’re drowning in debt, love. You’re barely making ends meet.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“So, a book deal would bring us all the money we could possibly need,” he says.</p><p>“I don’t know, David.”</p><p>“Let me do this, Al,” he says. “Please. I’ve taken so much from you. All these years, you… let me give something back. I need to feel… I need to feel useful again, love.”</p><p>“David…” She looks at him for a long moment, considering his words.</p><p>“Please. She asked if we can meet up for lunch,” David says and Sherlock’s back straightens immediately, his senses in full alert. “She’s paying.”</p><p><em>This is it, </em>he thinks. <em>This is it, it has to be.</em></p><p>“Come with me,” David continues. “Listen to what she has to say. Worst case scenario, we’ll say no.”</p><p>Confused, Sherlock deflates visibly. <em>It has to be it</em>, he thinks, <em>but who takes their wife to meet a handler?</em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The meeting with Elin Thøgersen, when it happens, provides no valuable information at all. David and Alison meet up with her for lunch in a somewhat dreary looking plaza in the City, not far from her employer’s UK headquarters.</p><p>“Her uncle owns an up and coming publishing house in the UK,” Sherlock reports to Mycroft over the phone as he makes his way from the plaza to the bolthole. “She gave them an actual offer and a publishing contract. She’ll be the ghostwriter, but the author’s credit and all royalties will go to David.”</p><p>“So, nothing suspicious,” Mycroft says.</p><p>“Evidently,” Sherlock says with a sigh. He hangs up without another word, walking silently down another dark street, the hesitation in Mycroft’s voice gnawing at his brain; Mycroft is losing his confidence in him, in his investigation. He n</p><p>They’re getting nowhere.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Captain Aldridge</strong>
</p><p>John sighs impatiently as he checks the time, bouncing Rosie on his hip as he watches Mary parking the car down the street.</p><p>Jonathan Palmer’s memorial service is due to end in about 45 minutes. He needs to get to the pub before the group gets there, as Sherlock instructed him. Friday traffic is about to make that nearly impossible.</p><p>He stares at the newspaper on the table, the one he’d just finished reading. The news about a possible book deal offered to Stewart hit the papers today, every article complimentary and eager. The man had, after all, not said a word to the public since his speech during the homecoming ceremony.</p><p>“You’re late,” he admonishes Mary when she finally comes in through the door. He checks his pockets, making sure he’s not forgetting anything important.</p><p>“Nice to see you too.” Mary hands him the car keys at the door, her voice tight.</p><p>“Where were you?” he asks. “I told you I have to leave by four at the latest.”</p><p>“I had a job interview.”</p><p>He stops dead in his tracks. “Oh?”</p><p>“A headhunter contacted me,” she says. “A surgery in Hanwell is looking for a new head nurse.”</p><p>“Oh,” is all he can come up with at the thought that his wife has essentially just quit her job as his nurse. “Alright. That’s...”</p><p>“Better pay,” she shrugs, never looking straight at him. “A bit of a promotion. We could use the money.”</p><p>“Are you… are you considering it?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Yeah, great,” he says. “Better… Better tell Liz as soon as possible, then. So they can start looking for somebody else, you know.”</p><p>“Yeah.” She says after a beat, her face inscrutable.</p><p>“OK then,” he says, handing Rosie over with an awkward smile. “Your turn.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s only later when he sits in the car, cursing the City and its rush hour traffic, that John thinks back on their exchange and realizes that he feels absolutely nothing.</p><p>He should be… surprised, maybe? Upset, surely, at another sign of their crumbling marriage? At the fact that these days, their interactions seem to add up to handing Rosie to one another?</p><p>He’s not.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“And then,”—the man roars in laughter— “bloody Palmer jumps out of the damn <a href="https://patrickcox.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/7840179866_07ac7c1f24_h.jpg">jingly truck</a> with this ancient boombox he’d found somewhere in the depths of Maiwand, and starts blasting <em>Love Shack</em>!”</p><p>The group roars in laughter, the memory materializing in everyone’s minds. John can’t help but smile to himself; he may have not met Jonathan, but he’d met dozens of soldiers just like him. Young men and women who found themselves as far from home as possible and sometimes, just sometimes, needed to regain their humanity by pissing around.</p><p>He adjusts the microphone he’s wearing for Sherlock’s sake, taking another swig of his pint, and watches their table from his seat at the back of the bar. They’re a group of about eight, the remainder of their section from Farah; they came straight over from the memorial, just as Sherlock had promised, determined to get as drunk as possible in Jonathan’s memory.</p><p>John fits in very well here—the place is full of veterans, respectful of David’s trauma and need for privacy. Sherlock had instructed John to blend in (<em>“Wear your plainest jumper and comb your hair to the side!”</em> he commanded him as John left the bolthole the previous day) and wait for an opportunity to start a conversation with David.</p><p>“Christ, he was a riot,” another man sighs and looks at a visibly stricken David. The man raises his pint and speaks to the table. “To Jonathan Palmer.”</p><p>A round of ‘hear, hear!’ moves across the table. They clap David’s shoulder in an attempt to make him feel better. John’s seen enough drunk men in his life to know David has had enough for tonight. He’s hoping any minute now the man will pop to the loo and give John an opportunity to grab his attention.</p><p>“<em>Hear, hear</em>.” A slurred man’s voice overrides the others’, coming from the pub’s entrance.</p><p>The table goes dead silent as everyone around it turns to find a dishevelled man walking toward them.</p><p>John recognizes him from Sherlock’s files; Captain Evan Aldridge, the man who commanded the Farah compound on the night of the attack. Sherlock hadn’t exaggerated when he’d talked of a man still in need of recovery. The Captain looks, for the lack of a better description, like he’s been sleeping rough for a long while. He’s dirty and dour, relying on crutches as he walks.</p><p>“Sir.” One of the men calls in surprise and stands up, offering a helping hand.</p><p>“No, no, no,” Aldridge slurs, pushing the man’s hand away. “If you want to help, get me a pint. Let’s raise another for Rambo here.”</p><p>It’s only then that John looks at David again, and this time the man looks white as a sheet. He looks at Aldridge in utter disbelief.</p><p>“Looks you’ve had enough for today, sir,” another man tells Aldridge.</p><p>“We… didn’t know you were coming,” somebody else pipes up uncomfortably.</p><p>“Of course I came, Palmer was my soldier,” Aldridge says, finally sitting down at the top of the table, right across from David. “And here we got a live one back, too.”</p><p>The table falls silent again. David looks at Aldridge stunned, blinking.</p><p>“What’s the matter with you, son?” Aldridge asks, taunting him.</p><p>“Lay off it, sir.” A response comes from one of the men. “It’s been hard enough on him as it is.”</p><p>“Hard?” Aldridge huffs. “<em>Hard</em>? For him? Look at you lot. Did anyone offer you a book deal when you came back from bloody Ganners?”</p><p>“What?” David asks, waking from his disorientation.</p><p>“Read it in the news today,” Aldridge says pointedly. “They offered you a whole lot for a bloody book deal. I fought in that war too—lost my bloody leg—and no one’s offering me a book deal. Are you man enough to at least tell the truth for once?”</p><p>“That’s enough, sir.”</p><p>“No, it’s not, Collins.” Aldridge berates the man sitting next to David. “I want to know where he’s been all this time. I want to know what happened that night, don’t you?”</p><p>“You know what happened,” David says weakly. “We were on observation duty, and they bombed us.”</p><p>“<em>Bloody mortars.</em>” The men around the table nod and mumble.</p><p>“Next thing I know I’m in a fucking cellar.”</p><p>“I don’t buy it,” Aldridge says, shaking his pint.</p><p>“Come on, sir—”</p><p>“No!” he says. “I don’t buy any of it. I think you’re full of shit, Stewart, right up to your bloody eyeballs.”</p><p>“You never could hold your liquor, sir,” David says, beginning to shake.</p><p>“I think you’re full of shit, Stewart.” Aldridge points at David. “Somebody screwed up and I think it was you. I bet you love this, don’t you? Wild Man Stewart comes home like a hero, shaking the bloody Secretary of State’s hand so that these fuckers can feel good about themselves.” </p><p>The table falls silent. Eyes are averted. John sighs in sympathetic frustration.</p><p>“What did I lose my bloody leg for? Why did my sister bury her husband? Who sends their best soldiers to make sure little Afghan girls go to school?” Aldridge continues and points at David. “And when did <em>you</em>, who once told me you just wanted to come back in one piece, become the poster boy for the war? How come Palmer died and you came back alive?”</p><p>David stands, swaying and unstable, and heads towards the head of the table. He looks like he’s ready to leave.</p><p>“I have no idea,” David says and his next words are sour and pained. “Luck, sir, that's what it's all about— good luck and bad luck.”</p><p>“You wanna talk about luck?” Aldridge, wobbling, stands up, holding on just barely to the table. “Let’s talk about my luck. About how I lost half a leg because of you and Palmer, you two cocksucking—”</p><p>And then it all happens in a flash; David jumps Aldridge like a vicious animal. He punches him forcefully, brutally, despite his drunken state. Eyes burning with anger; he holds on to Aldridge’s coat and shakes him like a ragdoll.</p><p>“You’re blaming <em>me</em> for this, you coward?” David says and points at Aldridge as two men hold him back just barely. “Who was the commanding officer that night, huh? Who really fucked up that night, <em>sir</em>?”</p><p>“Oi, that’s enough,” says one of the men as David sends both hands to Aldridge’s throat. He seems downright determined to suffocate him. “That’s enough, Stewart!”</p><p>“I looked up to you! He looked up to you! You were our friend!” David cries, as two of the men drag him away. “Let me go. Let me go!”</p><p>“David!” The men call behind him as David heads to the back of the pub.</p><p>“<em>Crap.</em>” John mutters and grabs his jacket, following David in the direction of the loos. He stands outside the door for a long minute, listening intently to the heaving sounds coming from the other side.</p><p>Taking a deep breath, he pushes the door and walks inside, as conspicuous as possible.</p><p>“Oi.” He steps in, feigning surprise at the sight of the man standing in front of the mirror. “Alright, mate?”</p><p>“Fine,” David says through gritted teeth, his anger still apparent in every inch of his body.</p><p>“Right.” John turns towards one of the urinals and does his business, looking at David over his shoulder.</p><p>“You don’t look fine. I’m a doctor.” John says as heads for the sinks. “I know these things.”</p><p>“I’m fine. Lay the fuck off.”</p><p>“No, you’re not,” John says. “You’re drunk and you’re having a massive panic attack. Come on, let’s get some fresh air, yeah?’</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“There you go, deep long breaths,” John says as he scans the man’s face and hands with a quick, experienced look. They left through the back entrance to the pub, standing with their backs against the alley wall.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m just…” David says, taking a big breath. “I have a lot on my mind.”</p><p>“I know who you are, mate,” John says quietly. “I<em>‘</em>d have to live under a rock not to.”</p><p>“<em>Fuck.</em>”</p><p>“That was not OK, what he did in there.” John juts his chin towards the door. “‘Was that your old commander?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“The first thing they teach you when you become an officer is that the buck stops with you,” John says. “No Captain worth their money would ever behave like that.”</p><p>“You’re…?”</p><p>“Was a Captain myself,” John nods. “Got shot in Hamidullah in 2009 and sent straight home.”</p><p>“Fuck,” David says again, bending his head towards his knees and shaking it. “I’m sorry, mate.”</p><p>“Not your fault.” John shrugs. “Better?”</p><p>“Much. Thanks.” David nods. “What’s your name?”</p><p>“Ian. Ian Calpin,” John says, conjuring up the name Sherlock had assigned him. He’s not John Watson on this case, after all. He can’t be.</p><p>“Scot?” David asks.</p><p>“Grandad was, yeah.”</p><p>“Right then.” David offers a hint of a smile. “Nice to meet you, Ian Calpin.”</p><p>“You too.” John smiles back. “Listen, don’t mind him. None of us were POWs but coming home was hell no matter who you are. It’s been years for me and I’m still… still getting used to it myself. Ignore everyone else. The best you can do is get some help, find somebody to talk to.”</p><p>“Help? What help?” David laughs bitterly. “There’s not one person in this entire bloody country who can understand what I’ve been through.”</p><p>“That’s not true. There are professionals—”</p><p>“Professionals? They weren’t there. None of these bastards were there,” David says and points at the door, talking about his friends. “There is one person who knew what it was actually like there, and I just spoke at his memorial.”</p><p>“Still—”</p><p>“And you know what? He’s right.” David continues, uninterrupted, as if John isn’t really there. “I’m not a hero. There’s nothing heroic about being captured. I used to lie in my cell every night, embarrassed. I bloody blew it. I let them take me, I didn’t fight hard enough. Something happened, something happened that made it possible for them to take me and not the others.”</p><p>John only blinks wordlessly.</p><p>“And now I spend every day at home with my wife, who keeps treating me like a child. She didn’t before, you know. I was a man. I only ever went because I was the man and I promised her I’d give her the life she deserved.”</p><p>“You can still give her that,” John says. “You only just came back.”</p><p>“She has somebody else now,” David murmurs quietly, “who I’m pretty sure she’s fucking as we speak—”</p><p>“David?” The door opens and a man steps into the alley, looking worried. “Alright?”</p><p>“I’m fine, Collins.”</p><p>“Who’s this?”</p><p>“He’s a doctor,” David says. “He’s helping.”</p><p>Collins frowns at John. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”</p><p>“No,” John shakes his head and moves away from the light, hoping to not be recognized. “No. Just happened upon him in the loos, thought he could use some help.”</p><p>Collins stares at him for another moment, unsure, his brows furrowed. “Come on mate, we’re all waiting for you.”</p><p>“No, I’m not going back in there.”</p><p>“He’s gone,” Collins says, laying a hand on David’s shoulder. “Listen, mate, don’t mind him. He came back all bent—”</p><p>“Didn’t we all?” David scoffs.</p><p>“No, mate. He’s living on the streets up in Marlow most of the time. They’re saying he’s bipolar.” Collins assures him. “Besides, he’s an arse. He always has been. Come on, I promised Al I’d put you in a cab home.”</p><p>“Yeah,” David says, exhaustion finally taking over him. “Yeah, alright.”</p><p>“Hey,” John says when Collins helps David towards the door. He pulls a pen and a piece of paper out, writing down a number. “Call me if you need anything. I can help, you know. Find a support group or something.”</p><p>David takes the note, confused for a beat, then looks up at John with sharp, penetrating eyes. They look like the eyes of a completely different person; not the helpless soldier who was just holding onto the wall, hyperventilating.</p><p>“Maybe I will,” David says, flapping the note. “Captain Calpin.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For the sake of this story, I've decided that Sir Edwin is more senior than Mycroft and Lady Smallwood, though I'm not sure if that's true. In this story, he's the head MI6. The difference in seniority between Mycroft, Lady Smallwood and Edwin is very unclear in the show, so just go with it.</p><p>-</p><p>My thanks to reader existentialamericano who gave me the idea for Sherlock's supposed favourite book as a child.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. The Phone Call / In Plain Sight / The Man on the Hill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Merry Christmas!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <strong>The phone call</strong>
</p><p>“Oh good, you’re here,” John says rushing into the bolthole, breathless from exertion.</p><p>“Of course I’m here, where else would I be?” Sherlock frowns at the evidence wall. Captain Aldridge’s performance at the pub tonight had earned him a prime location on his ever-evolving collection of evidence.</p><p>“That was good, yeah?” He hears John asking as he catches his breath. “Something happened there with Aldridge.”</p><p>John Watson, master of understatement.</p><p>“Yes, I should say so.”</p><p>“I think Aldridge knows more than he lets on,” John says. “You should have seen David’s face when he walked in. He looked like he was looking at a ghost.”</p><p>Sherlock turns around again, his back to John. He smiles to himself, a deeply satisfied smile. <em>That’s exactly what I think just happened</em>, he thinks. “Aldridge is shaping up to be a promising lead or at the very least, an interesting character witness.”</p><p>“We should interview him,” John says, sitting in what Sherlock now considers, with a twitch to his stomach, to be John’s chair. “Is David home yet?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Sherlock shakes his head without turning to John. “Billy just rang me. He said David ended up refusing a ride home. Told his comrades he needed to cool off and decided to walk instead.”</p><p>“Is Billy following him, then?”</p><p>“Yes, he is. He promised a report should anything important happen.”</p><p>“Aldridge was a piece of work, alright,” John says. “Nothing beats a drunk homophobe.”</p><p>“Ah,” Sherlock says pointedly. “So you did catch that.”</p><p>“Yeah, of course I bloody did. No wonder David tried to get one on him,” John huffs and looks at the new photos pinned to Sherlock’s evidence wall. “What’s all this?”</p><p>“New details about Aldridge. It appears that for a short period of time after his return he became a part of <em>Britain’s Future Collective</em>.”</p><p>“Never heard of them.”</p><p>“A seperetist right wing movement,” Sherlock says. “A collection of some of the country's most extreme anti-EU, anti-NATO activists.”</p><p>“Oh?” John says. “Well, that explains some of the things he said about David tonight.”</p><p>“Indeed it does, although we should probably take most of it with a grain of salt.”</p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p>“They were the ones who reported his mental condition and had him looked over,” Sherlock says. “Became a bit too extreme in his opinions, even for them.”</p><p>“You don’t hear that often.” John says, his eyebrows raised.</p><p>Sherlock hums in agreement. “One really should check their own priorities if a group of radicals decides you’re far too radical for them.”</p><p>Sherlock’s phone rings, and he hurries to answer, seeing that it’s Billy calling.</p><p>“Yes?” Sherlock says, listening intently. “Where’s he now?”</p><p>“What is it?” John whispers.</p><p>“He’s just sitting there? Is he talking to anyone?” Sherlock asks, shushing John. “Stay next to him, make sure the mic is on.”</p><p>“What’s going on?” John asks.</p><p>“He hasn’t gone home,” Sherlock says as he hangs up. “He’s mumbling to himself on a bench near Millennium Bridge.”</p><p>“Well, he <em>is</em> drunk and miserable.” John says.</p><p>“Or waiting for a handler, hopefully.” Sherlock says wistfully.</p><p>“Did you hear what he said about Alison? He knows about her boyfriend.”</p><p>“Yes, well, he’d have to be an idiot not to notice that his wife is—” Sherlock stops himself before he finishes that sentence, and John frowns at him. Sherlock clears his throat and moves to the screens on the table, wearing the headphones. He listens for a minute, hearing Billy trying to start a conversation with David, but the man rudely rebuffs him.</p><p>“Let me, I’ll do that,” John says and takes the headphones away from Sherlock. “Go back to your wall.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbles and walks away, already distracted.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It takes John no more than twenty minutes to begin dozing in his chair, just as Sherlock had predicted. He listens to the sound of John’s breathing, the repetitive cadence of it familiar, comforting.</p><p>Grounding.</p><p>It’s a privilege he mustn’t get used to.</p><p>He jumps when his phone rings and he takes the call, not even bothering to check the caller ID. “Billy?”</p><p>There’s a long silence, a hesitant one, before he hears a whisper of a familiar voice. “Peter?”</p><p>Sherlock freezes in place, his breath catching. “David?”</p><p>“Yeah. Hi, I…” David croaks. “Is this a bad time?”</p><p>“David, you’re not supposed to...” Sherlock stutters. “Is this an emergency?”</p><p>“No, not really. It’s just that I really need to talk to someone—”</p><p>“No,” Sherlock’s knuckles tighten around the phone, and he knows that if anyone could see them now they’d be white. “We can’t be in touch.”</p><p>“Please, Peter. Don’t hang up. I really need...” David says, and Sherlock closes his eyes in frustration. “Why did you ignore me the other day?”</p><p>“What other day?”</p><p>“When you were interrogating Nadi,” David says. “You walked right past me.”</p><p>“It… it was a complicated day.”</p><p>“But you<em> are</em> in London,” David says. “Still, yeah? You said you won’t be staying long.”</p><p>“David—”</p><p>“Can we meet?” David asks. “I’m so… lost. I’m lost in my head, I’m lost in my own home, I’ve been having these terrible nightmares—”</p><p>“That’s… normal.” Sherlock clears his throat and speaks very quietly. “Surely they told you that in acclimation training.”</p><p>“Acclimation training?” David snorts. “You know what they said in acclimation training? They told me the name of the current Prime Minister and told me the price of bread. Do you know what they didn’t tell me? That everyone had moved on. That all of my mates now have children and careers, and all I do is remind them of some ancient time in their life they don’t really wish to remember.”</p><p>Sherlock bites his lip, holding back his words.</p><p>“I think Alison wishes I’d just stayed dead,” David says.</p><p>“I’m sure that’s not true.”</p><p>“She does, I know she does.” David says pointedly. “And I… I think she knows about Jonathan, and I don’t know what to do anymore, Peter.”</p><p>Sherlock stares at the floor, unable to speak.</p><p>“I miss Gaza,” David continues to fill the silence, blurting out the words as if he doesn’t believe them himself. Sherlock hears David letting out an incredulous scoff. “I miss the safehouse. Is that crazy?”</p><p>“I know it feels that way right now, David—”</p><p>“Remember when you told me? About how you wished you never came back?”</p><p><em>Of course I remember</em>. <em>How can I forget? </em></p><p>“I get it now.”</p><p>“That’s different, David. Things are different for you.”</p><p>“How are they <em>different</em>?” David scoffs.</p><p>“I’m sorry—”</p><p>“They called me in again, tomorrow. They want me for another debrief or something like that. Why won’t they leave me alone?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“Can we meet, Peter? Please?”</p><p>“No.” Sherlock says firmly.</p><p>“<em>Why not</em>?” David asks, frustrated.</p><p>“Because,”—Sherlock clears his throat—“we can’t be seen together. I’m an undercover agent, David, I can’t take that risk.”</p><p>“Peter, please, I mi—”</p><p>“Goodbye, David.” Sherlock disconnects the call, his heart beating a hundred miles per hour. He takes a long breath and closes his eyes, struggling to regain his composure.</p><p>It’s only then that silence in the room grabs his attention. John isn’t snoring softly anymore.</p><p><em>John</em>. His breath catches, and he feels a rush of blood to his head. <em>I forgot you were here</em>, he thinks as he turns his head to find John with the headphones still on, his lips in a tight frown.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>John looks at the screen, biting his lips, determined to control the deluge of questions, of accusations threatening to burst out of him. He clears his throat and turns his head slowly at Sherlock’s direction. Their eyes meet and hold each other, narrow, until Sherlock breaks the silence.</p><p>“That was David,” he says and John’s heart drops. Can’t be good if Sherlock Holmes is stating something deathly obvious.</p><p>“Yeah.” John croaks. “Yeah, I figured that out, believe it or not.” The moment stretches. When Sherlock doesn’t offer an explanation, he continues. “You, er… you didn’t say you’re in touch.”</p><p>“We’re not.”</p><p>“He’s got your phone number, the new number,” John points an accusing finger at the computer screen. As much as he’d like to remain calm, he can’t seem to find a way to throw this fact at Sherlock’s face without it sounding accusatory. “You never gave me that one. I literally can’t reach you unless I come here.”</p><p>“I never imagined he might actually use it.”</p><p>“Well, he did.” John says. “Why did you say no?”</p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>“You’ve been spying on him for weeks, hoping for a break,” John says. “And here he is, reaching out to you asking to talk. Why would you say no?”</p><p>“I gave him my number just in case of emergency, John,” Sherlock says.</p><p>John’s eyes narrow and his lips tighten, a signal that he doesn’t find the answer satisfying. Sherlock knows that look far too well.</p><p>“He’s got a caseworker, a professional who can help him.” Sherlock tries again. “My job was to keep him safe in Gaza. I’m not a therapist.”</p><p>“No one said you were, but that still doesn’t explain why you won’t listen to what he has to say.”</p><p>“John—”</p><p>“Sherlock, what the hell is going on here?” He asks. “What did he mean when he said that Alison knows about Jonathan? What does she know?”</p><p>“I think… I think he means that she knows about the affair.”</p><p>“What affair?”</p><p>“David and Jonathan were lovers,” Sherlock says slowly. “They were planning on getting together once they finished their tour. He was going to leave her.”</p><p>“Oh,” John says, his face scrunching as he blinks with apprehension. “He told you that?”</p><p>Sherlock nods curtly.</p><p>“Last time I asked you how you knew he was unfaithful, you said he needn’t have told you.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“<em>So?</em>” John asks. “So that was a lie. He actually did tell you.”</p><p>“Yes, I suppose he did.”</p><p>“Why would he tell you something so personal?”</p><p>“People tend to mistake me for taking an interest in their issues.” Sherlock says, feigning nonchalance.</p><p><em>Oh no</em>, John thinks, <em>I’m not falling for that.</em> “You didn’t mention that affair was with Jonathan when you briefed me.”</p><p>“It didn't seem relevant at the time.”</p><p>“Didn't seem..” John clears his throat and stops, unsure how to proceed.“Sherlock, what’s the one thing I asked for when I agreed to help, hmm? No secrets, no lies.”</p><p>“Technically, I wasn’t lying, John—”</p><p>“A lie by omission is still a <em>lie</em>, Sherlock.” John says. "Since when do you..."</p><p>
  <em>Since when do you talk to people about... feelings and... affairs?</em>
</p><p>“John, please, you’re reading too much into this,” Sherlock says. “I spent two months with the man thinking he was an abused, suffering prisoner of war. Yes, I may not have divulged everything. It seemed inconsequential at the time but now—”</p><p>“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” John shakes his head in frustration.</p><p>“This is my investigation, John,” Sherlock says pointedly, his back straightening. “It’s up to me to decide which parts of it are vital. If that’s why you’re so inexplicably upset—”</p><p>“Inexplicably upset!” John scoffs. “You drag me into this—”</p><p>“I most certainly did not!” Sherlock says. "In fact, if I reacll correctly, I said you shouldn't join me on this one."</p><p>John grinds his teeth at the impasse, deflating. Because that's not why he's so riled up, is it? There was much more disturbing part of the conversation he'd just overheard than Sherlock's little lie.</p><p>“You told him you regretted coming back?” John blurts, the words leaving his mouth before he’s even aware of them.</p><p>Sherlock flinches in surprise at the question, blinking.</p><p>“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He continues when Sherlock doesn't respond. "You told him that in Gaza, so you meant... last time?"</p><p>“John, you’re—”</p><p>“Don’t tell me I misunderstood,” John says. “No, don’t turn me into an idiot, for once in your life. You did say it, because... you said things are different for him. How are they different?”</p><p>Sherlock takes a deep breath and finally looks at John with a challenging stare. “You know very well what that means, John,” Sherlock says quietly, defiantly. “You didn’t want to come back from the war, either.”</p><p>“That was different.” John says. “I had nothing to come back to—”</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>“God,” John scoffs and goes to grab his coat from his chair when Sherlock looks away, unable to respond. “You know, I’m jealous of you.”</p><p>“Jealous?”</p><p>“I wish I could be more like you, sometimes,” John says. “I wish I could be so careless, so bloody <em>careless </em>about everyone's feelings but myself. Do you even have the slightest idea…”</p><p>Sherlock’s face cloud with unreadable emotion. His back straightens in attention, but John stops him before he even opens his mouth.</p><p>“No,” John says as he reaches for the door. “No, just… I don’t want to hear it. I don’t.”</p><p>He lets the door slam so loudly behind him, it feels as though the whole building shakes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>In Plain Sight</strong>
</p><p>Rosie takes her first wobbly step towards John the next morning, looking up at him with her blue, wondrous eyes. He laughs so hard, pride finally filling in the empty gaping wound that the previous night’s conversation with Sherlock left him with.</p><p>He’s been so busy being happy that Sherlock is back, it never even occurred to him that - he swallows at the thought - <em>Sherlock</em> might not be.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He’s still reeling later that morning when finally his anger leaves his body, and he slumps in defeat. The truth is he can’t really hold Sherlock to the same standard as he does himself, can he? Sherlock isn’t like everyone. He loves the danger. He loves the rush, the blood pumping through his veins.</p><p>He’s always been that way, long before he’d met John. Sherlock longs, he aches for extremes; for jumping from rooftops and chasing hounds in great big forests. In many ways, he’s wasted on London’s criminal classes. He was bound to grow out of the city he loves so much eventually.</p><p>Of course he’d regret coming back after a great grand tour. After everything he must have been through, coming back to Baker Street must have seemed so quaint. If he’s perfectly honest, John, in his heart of hearts, still thinks of himself as the roughened Captain, soldiering on in the sands of Maiwand. He misses those days, of course he does, but he’d thought he’d found an appropriate replacement for it in Sherlock.</p><p>John had been enough for a while, until he wasn’t. So Sherlock left once, came back, gave it an honest try. And then he left again. He’s back now, but not really. The man in that bolthole isn’t Sherlock. He’s not <em>his </em>Sherlock.</p><p><em>He doesn’t need you, he never needed you.</em> Mary’s voice comes loud and clear through his mind. And Christ, John hates it when Mary is right.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Vauxhall Cross, London</strong>
</p><p>“Is your name David Julian Stewart?”</p><p>“Yes,” David nods, strapped to wires emanating from the computer housing the polygraph test’s software.</p><p>“The fact that you still rely on polygraph tests is appalling, Mycroft.” Sherlock tells his brother as they watch David taking the test through one-way glass just outside Mycroft’s office.</p><p>“It’s the best course of action at our disposal in certain situations, Sherlock.” Mycroft says dryly. “Works wonderfully when it’s time to scare someone enough into talking.”</p><p>“Did you serve as a sniper in Afghanistan?”</p><p>“Yes.” David says wearily. Sherlock can see the tells of David’s previous night’s misadventure - the hangover, the aching knuckles, the slouchy shoulders following his argument with Alison over his drunken state. Sherlock watched a live show of it this morning on the screens in his bolthole.</p><p>“Excellent, Corporal, you’re doing really well.” The polygraph operator assures him.</p><p>“Is your wife’s name Alison?”</p><p>“Quite so.”</p><p>“Yes or no only, please.” The man says pointedly.</p><p>“Yes, sir.” David nods.</p><p>“Do you have children?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Did you attend Jordanhill Secondary School near Glasgow?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Are you a Royal Marine?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Have you ever used any illegal substances?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Have you ever been arrested?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Did you participate in the investigation of Yasser Khoury, also known as Nadi, last week?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Did you slip a piece of razor blade to Yasser Khoury?”</p><p>David’s face twist with shock. “What?”</p><p>“Yes or no, please.” The operator says. “Did you slip a piece of razor blade to Yasser Khoury?”</p><p>“No, of course not.” David says and squirms in his chair when the operator eyes him again, over the answer. “No. No, I didn’t.”</p><p>Mycroft and Sherlock turn to look at the lines produced by the machine, the results of David’s test. The graph is flat, and there seems to be no indication that David is lying. Mycroft looks at Sherlock with a keen eye, but doesn’t say a word.</p><p>“You read his files,” Sherlock’s lips tighten in frustration, noticing his brother’s stare. “He knows how to bypass these tests.”</p><p>Sherlock presses a button and speaks to the polygraph operator.“Ask him about the razor blade again.”</p><p>Mycroft sighs when they get the same result, and Sherlock presses the button again. “Ask him if he’s ever been unfaithful to his wife.”</p><p>Mycroft turns sharply to look at his brother, while the operator looks uncomfortably at them through the glass.</p><p>“Ask him.” Sherlock insists.</p><p>The operator clears his throat. “Have you... ever been unfaithful to your wife?”</p><p>“Excuse me?” David says, outraged. “What kind of question is that?”</p><p>“Yes or no, Corporal, please.” The operator says. “Have you ever been unfaithful-”</p><p>“No!” David spits, his cheeks red with anger. “Bloody hell, no.”</p><p>Sherlock eyes the results, his breath held tightly in his chest. When a flat line is all the machine spews out, he slams the door to the small room angrily behind him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I don’t believe I have to tell you this, brother, but you haven’t yet produced a single verifiable evidence against the Corporal.” Mycroft says back in his office, watching like a hawk as Sherlock paces this way and that in frustration.</p><p>“That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” Sherlock says.</p><p>“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” Mycroft says.</p><p>“Abu Nazir is a man notorious for playing the long game. What we’re seeing right now is the foundations being laid, the actors in a play assembling.”</p><p>“How long do you think you’ll be able to pull this off?” Mycroft asks. “Live in that bolthole, like a ghost?”</p><p>“I think the more important question is, what have you been doing so far?” Sherlock asks accusingly. “What have you got on your end of the investigation?”</p><p>“I’m progressing cautiously, very cautiously.” Mycroft says and hands a heap of dossiers to Sherlock. “The first indication about a POW still alive came through an anonymous call to a casework operator. That could be nearly anyone from our wider network - an employee, an asset, someone from GCHQ or even Interpol. Per protocol the report was examined against any information in other agencies - Mossad, CIA, FSD, DGSE etc. They had no similar indications to corroborate it, so it was passed on as a finalized report to our department.”</p><p>“Who was notified about it first?”</p><p>“Lady Smallwood,” Mycroft says. “As it sits under her branch of responsibilities.”</p><p>“When was this?”</p><p>“Shortly after her husband committed suicide.” Mycroft says. “She was naturally preoccupied. The tip was examined by Mrs. Norbury and passed on to Lady Smallwood later, but seeing as there was no real actionable information in it, it was left untouched until both the Mossad and DGSE reached out to us. They began hearing a similar rumour themselves and notified us.”</p><p>“What made them suspicious?”</p><p>“They were becoming aware of Abu Nazir’s presence in the Gaza strip.” Mycroft says. “It was unexpected, to say the least. He had all of Afghanistan to hide in; it didn’t make sense for him to move. Gaza is far smaller, restrictive, and most certainly poses him under the very watchful eye of nearly every entity in the region: The Israelis, the Egyptians, Hamas, the Jordanians. The list goes on forever.”</p><p>“He wanted to draw attention to himself,” Sherlock says. “He was hiding in plain sight.”</p><p>“Yes, I tend to agree.” Mycroft says. “Abu Nazir is a politician’s politician, and he’s very familiar with the UK. He did study here, after all. I suspect that he knew that the UK, after resorting to nothing but peaceful assignments in Afghanistan, would not go after him there.”</p><p>“But an eager agency like Mossad or DGSE would have no qualms about going into Gaza in order to kill a master terrorist such as himself.” Sherlock says, catching up to Mycroft’s train of thought. “He’d put himself as bait. He wanted to be found. He wanted us to find David.”</p><p>Mycroft nods wordlessly.</p><p>“Who gave the order to send me there?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“I did.” Mycroft says. “I caught a whiff of the rumours as we were discussing your punishment for shooting Magnussen and managed to convince Lady Smallwood to put you on the case within a matter of weeks.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And what?”</p><p>“And that’s all?” Sherlock says. “She agreed?”</p><p>“Yes,” Mycroft says. “Despite what you think, people do see the value you bring to this country, Sherlock, And Lady Smallwood was thankful for your attempt to assist her with Magnussen.”</p><p>“Is she?”</p><p>“Yes, she is.”</p><p>“Well, she made a terrible job of it, didn’t she?” Sherlock asks. “Do you trust her?”</p><p>“Trust…”</p><p>“Lady Smallwood.”</p><p>“Trust is a very rare commodity in my circles, Sherlock.” Mycroft says. “But if you ask whether I think you were sent there on purpose then I'd say no, I don’t believe so.”</p><p>A text interrupts their conversation.</p><p>“That’s Wiggins. He says that David just texted the Danish reporter.” Sherlock says. “He’s asking to meet her in 40 minutes outside her office.”</p><p>“He only just now left the building. Was this planned?” Mycroft asks.</p><p>“No,” Sherlock says hurriedly, reaching for his jacket. “This is the first time he’s texted anyone, and he’s using the burner phone.”</p><p>“Sherlock, you still have to sit for the polygraph test!” Mycroft calls behind him.</p><p>“I’ll do it some other time!” Sherlock calls over his shoulder, rushing out.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“‘is coming, guv.” Billy’s hushed voice travels through the headphones, hidden under Sherlock’s black hoodie. They’re both circling the swirling fountain that sits at the centre of the business district plaza, where Elin Thøgersen’s news offices are located.</p><p>Sherlock looks away to see David approaching (<em>angry over the invasion of privacy at the polygraph test, severely hungover, hungry</em>), red cheeked and determined as he approaches the single bench in the entire plaza, where Elin is waiting for him. Wiggins does as instructed and rounds the fountain, pretending to be out of breath and holding his side as he sits as close to them as possible.</p><p>Sherlock jogs away, keeping his distance and careful to not be seen or raise any suspicion. He adjusts his earpiece as the sound of the running water from the fountains fills his ears; when David finally reaches Elin, his body language immediately transforms from tightly angry to expressively furious.</p><p>“Billy!” He whispers into his own earpiece. “Billy, move closer!”</p><p>Elin and David are having a full on argument, right in front of his eyes. Billy doesn’t move a muscle, so he tried again. “Billy, move away from the water!”</p><p>Sherlock hisses in frustration, looking around him with his hands in his pockets; he can’t hear Billy, Billy can’t hear him and - he’s sure - Billy can’t hear a word of what Elin and David are saying.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“He’s supposed to be dead!” David shouts over the sound of the fountain’s running water. “They told me he was dead!”</p><p>“I don’t know anything about that–” the reporter calls back.</p><p>“They made me believe-”</p><p>“Please, relax.”</p><p>“I’m out!” David says, turning furiously away from her and leaving the plaza. “Tell them I’m out!”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Whatever it is they’re fighting over, Sherlock realizes in frustration it’s substantial and short. David shakes his head angrily and steps away to the main road before Sherlock has even managed to recalculate.</p><p>Sherlock mumbles to himself furious frustration, turning to leave the area as quickly as possible.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>The Man on the Hill</strong>
</p><p>Liz knocks on John’s office door the following Monday. He’d drowned himself in work all weekend, avoiding Mary’s all-seeing eyes. “I was asked to hand deliver this,” she says, holding out a medium-sized, puffy envelope.</p><p>“Thank you,” John says, brows furrowed in distracted confusion.</p><p>He’s too busy to look at the envelope hours later, until his last patient for the day runs late. Finally giving into his curiosity, he unceremoniously tears it open. He finds inside a memory stick, a burner phone and a colourful brochure for a veteran’s support group. There’s a sticky note attached to the brochure; on it, a date and time written on it in Sherlock’s distinctive handwriting.</p><p>He rolls his eyes, adding on a suffering sigh for good measure.</p><p>
  <em>Prat. </em>
</p><p>He turns the burner phone on; it’s a simple one, with a physical keyboard and all, of the kind he hadn’t used in years. One contact person only is programmed to the phone, saved as ‘X’. He dials and holds his breath with a mixture of anger and relief.</p><p>“Hello?” John asks nervously.</p><p>“Did you watch the video in the memory stick?” Sherlock's voice comes through softly, almost a whisper.</p><p>And it’s like magic, how that voice of his controls the state of John’s heart; back and forth between steely unease and grounding comfort. He clings to the fluttering thought that maybe he’s got it all wrong. That maybe, maybe, he’s just overreacting.</p><p>John sighs again, looks unseeing down at the table. <em>How do you do that? </em>He wants to ask the man on the other side of the call. <em>Is there nothing I won’t ever forgive you?</em> “I will now,” is all he says instead.</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>“Hey?” John says quickly before the other man hangs up, careful not to use his name, just in case.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“How could you, David!” Alison’s recorded voice fills John’s office. For the sake of privacy, he pulls his headphones from his bag and connects it to the computer. The video Sherlock had sent is an edited recording from his live feed of the Stewarts’ house. John watches the domestic unfolding on his laptop.</p><p>It’s incredibly unsettling.</p><p>“Aldridge!” Alison continues, upset. “Your own commander!”</p><p>“You weren’t there, Al.” David gives back as good as he gets. “You didn’t hear the things he said, the things he accused me of!”</p><p>“Collins says you nearly choked him-”</p><p>“I was drunk, Al!” David yells, losing his cool. “How many times do I have to say that?”</p><p>“I’ve seen you drunk so many times, David, but you never punched anyone, or tried to choke them.” Alison grabs her phone, handing it to David. “Call him. Call Aldridge, and apologize.”</p><p>“Fancy that,” David scoffs, shocked. “Not bloody likely. After what he said-”</p><p>“Call him, or I will.”</p><p>“No!”</p><p>Alison crosses her arms, angry. “You need help, David. You can’t go on like that. We can’t. We–”</p><p>“What are you on about?”</p><p>“You’re not OK.” Alison says, her voice cracking. “You hardly sleep, and when you do you hurt me when you’re having nightmares–”</p><p>“That’s why I moved to sleep on the floor–”</p><p>“You barely leave the house. There’s so much anger in you that you punched a bloody–”</p><p>“Yes, I’m full of bloody anger, Al!” David yells, his anger sparking anew. “I’m a wreck, alright? I know I am!”</p><p>“That’s not true, David.” Alison says. “You’re still the wonderful man I fell in love with. I know you are. But you need help. Professional help. There are groups, therapists. Henry can arrange for a quick appointment–”</p><p>“Oh, for fucks sake.” David says. “Enough about Henry, Al.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I don’t want to hear his name anymore,” David says coldly, his voice raising, as if in imitation of Alison. “<em>‘Henry said this, Henry said that’</em>.”</p><p>“David–”</p><p>“I know about you two,” David says sourly. “You think I’m a bloody idiot?”</p><p>Alison loses her cool for a split second but suddenly stands taller, her face twisting in determination. “I know about Jonathan.”</p><p>David freezes in surprise, swallowing loudly.</p><p>“Yeah. Do you think <em>I’m a bloody idiot</em>?” She asks. “I saw his letters in that box. The photos, the condoms.”</p><p>“Al-”</p><p>“Were you ever going to tell me?”</p><p>“I-”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m shagging Henry.” She says, her voice breaking in pain. “We’ve… we’ve been together for a while now.”</p><p>She waits for David’s response and continues when there isn’t one.</p><p>“I waited for you for <em>eight years</em>, David. Eight long years, I sat here and cried myself to sleep, every night.” She says. “And then they sent me that box and a letter saying they’re starting to pay dependants’ benefits…” She takes a long breath, closing her eyes when she continues. “And Henry was here and he… I didn’t want you to find out like that. When they told us you’re coming back I told Henry that despite everything I’m still your wife. That you come first. And I-”</p><p>Seeing where the conversation is going, he eyes the brochure that came with the package. He’s no Sherlock Holmes but it’s safe to assume he’s meant to approach David again in the date and time mentioned.</p><p>John jumps when a knock on the door to his office tears him away from the drama unfolding in front of his eyes. He pauses the video and calls out a hesitant ‘<em>come in</em>’.</p><p>“John?”</p><p>“Mary?” He says surprised, recognizing her voice. “Yeah, come in. Alright?”</p><p>“Hi.” She takes only a step or two, holding a small box with the things from her desk.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>“What, em…” He blinks. “Is Rosie alright?”</p><p>“Yeah, of course.” She says. She sounds casual, everyday. “Just wanted you to know that I... I came in to give my notice today.”</p><p>“Oh. Right.”</p><p>“They’re going to extend Mira’s fill-in contract.” She says. “So I can start in the Hanwell surgery as early as next week.”</p><p>“Good, then.” He nods. “Good.”</p><p>She eyes him from head to toe, like X-Ray vision. “Are you alright with this?”</p><p>“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” He says with an uncomfortable, polite smile. “A great opportunity for you. Promotion, you said, right?”</p><p>“Listen, there’s something I haven’t told you about that,” She says hesitantly, shuffling her legs. “The Hanwell surgery is a free clinic. It’s run by Doctors without Borders, you know. For refugees, shelter seekers.”</p><p>“Right,” He half says, half asks.</p><p>“Every other weekend the staff can choose to fly to Calais to and help their clinics there.” She says. “I mean, I’m not going to go that often, but it might come up.”</p><p>“Oh. Weekends?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Well, I suppose—”</p><p>“Dr. Watson!” Liz barges in the room without knocking, disturbing them. “It’s Mr Wheeler. He just collapsed at the reception desk!”</p><p>“Coming!” John says, rushing out of the room. “Get the defibrillator, Liz!”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mary’s not there by the time he goes back to his office, after the paramedics carry Mr. Wheeler to the A&amp;E.</p><p>It never crosses his mind when he collects the contents of the envelope Sherlock had sent him that she, a trained nurse, stayed behind in his office instead of rushing out to help him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Rosie’s beautiful laughter causes everyone at the park to turn their heads for a split second, raising smiles on every stranger’s face. She’s easily excitable; every bird, every dog, every squirrel sends her cackling in childish, innocent delight.</p><p>He’s holding her up by her small hands, helping her take a few wobbly steps as he closes his eyes and tilts his head to the sky. The combination of the sun caressing his face on this surprisingly warm day and Rosie’s little fingers brings a measure of calm he feels so rarely.</p><p>“Good girl!” He tells her, encouraging her as she takes another small step. She tries for another one and misses, falling gently on her bum. “Oh, it’s alright. That’s my wee girl,” he comforts her, helping her up on her small legs again.</p><p>It’s when he kisses her warm, pink cheek that he suddenly feels his hairs rising. A sensation crawls over him; that ancient instinctive jolt one gets when he’s being watched. He opens his eyes quickly and looks around him, blinking and surveying the nearby benches.</p><p>There’s nothing out of line as far as his eyes can see; just a regular Tuesday afternoon filled with sounds of laughter and idle chatter.</p><p>He stops in his step, moves Rosie closer to him instinctively; the sensation still there. He looks this way and that again until his eyes land on a tall, hooded figure, sitting on a bench at the top of a small hill right above them. It’s a man, sitting motionless, with a hint of a ginger beard and his hands in the hoodie’s pockets. His eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses.</p><p>He sighs with relief. He won’t blow Sherlock’s cover, but the distance between them - no more than a minute’s walk - seems like it stretches over an endless horizon.</p><p>Rosie demands his attention by calling out some unidentified jumble of words, smiling warmly up at him. He smiles, too, never taking his eyes away from the man on the hill.</p><p>
  <em>I doubt you’d ruin her life sitting on a bench in a park.</em>
</p><p>He encourages Rosie to turn in Sherlock’s general direction, his smile growing larger and larger with pride when she takes a brave, big step, and then another.</p><p>“Let’s show Sherlock how clever you are, love.” He tells her, his voice hushed.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Give a girl some comments sugar, I'm dying to hear what you think ❤️❤️</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Apology / Dirty Laundry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A short one today, but only because there will probably be another update later this week.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hello?”</p><p>Sherlock leans back in his chair at the bolthole, listening to a recording of a conversation David and Elin had earlier that day. Elin was the one who initiated it, calling the number for David’s iPhone instead of his secret burner phone. It seems the two are now keeping two channels of communication: one, where their conversations seem to be above board and completely unhelpful to Sherlock; the other using a burner phone, but that was only used once so far.</p><p>Sherlock thinks that alone should raise a red flag, but at this point one text aimed at scheduling a meeting is hardly damning.</p><p>David has been staring out the kitchen window for a long while, watching the last cohort of reporters still determined enough to wait outside the couple’s house. Alison has used her ties with Captain Mason to demand that security is put outside their home to keep the press away, but bureaucracy seems to be slowing that down.</p><p>“Corporal Stewart? This is Elin Thøgersen.”</p><p>“Oh,” David says, sounding genuinely surprised and quite unhappy. “Yes?”</p><p>“I wanted to apologize for our disagreement last week,” Elin says. “I understand you were upset. It was wrong of us to come out with the press release for the book deal before we finalized the details.”</p><p>“Yes, it was,” David says and clears his throat.</p><p>“It’s just that… please understand, this is a unique opportunity for my uncle’s publishing company.” She continues. “I suppose everyone got a bit too excited. We were sure you were fully onboard.”</p><p>“Yeah, so was I,” David says. “But we had an agreement, and if you can’t keep your agreements, I don’t know if we can move forward. How can I be sure you won’t get… too excited next time?”</p><p>“You’re right, of course. As a gesture of good will, I thought perhaps I could come over and apologize. I believe I owe an apology to your wife, too.”</p><p>“Yes, I believe you do.”</p><p>“In our meeting you mentioned you might be nervous about writing down your experiences,” Elin says, “so we thought I’d give you a video camera. You can just speak to it, share your memories, and we can turn that into an actual story. What do you think?”</p><p>“I think I need a bit more time.”</p><p>“Dinner, perhaps. With Alison, too,” she says. “So I can hand deliver the video camera myself. How about Monday evening?”</p><p>“Monday evening’s not good. I’ve got a…” David says, sneaking a glance at a tight lipped Alison, who’s been sitting and listening too. “Group thing.”</p><p>“Maybe my place, then?” she asks. “Thursday night?”</p><p>“Maybe. I need to think about it. I’m not sure I’m still interested at all.”</p><p>The line goes silent for a long, stretching minute. Sherlock gets the prickling sense that this was not the response Elin had expected, not with such finality.</p><p>“I certainly hope you change your mind,” Elin says. “After all, you’ve got everything to gain and nothing to lose. I think we both agree the world needs to hear what you have to say.”</p><p>In the video recording, Sherlock can see David turning back to look at Alison again. He sighs quietly and turns around. “We’ll see.”</p><p>Alison doesn’t say a word to David when the conversation is over; the two had been barely speaking since the truth about Jonathan and Henry came out. The argument ended with an impasse, together with David’s promise to at least try and visit a support group.</p><p>Sherlock places his hands in a thinking position; he closes his eyes and revisits the conversation he’d just heard. David and Elin are bold; they speak openly, right in front of Alison, and it’s extremely convincing. One couldn’t be blamed for being fooled, and if Sherlock hadn’t witnessed their soundless argument near the fountain, he would have ruled out any foul play himself.</p><p>And yet, the question remains; why would David choose Elin, an insignificant journalist representing an insignificant publishing house, to tell his story? He’d rejected nearly every other big name in the industry, ones which arguably would have offered more significant amounts of money in return.</p><p>Sherlock stands up, walks towards the window. It’s moments like these that he misses Baker Street, misses his violin. By now, Sherlock’s used to not being in his element, but he prefers it. One can hardly solve an international case of intrigue from a run-down hotel room.</p><p>This isn’t how this was supposed to go. Not at all. This isn’t the work he’d committed himself to when he took off on that plane nearly a year ago. His options are running thin; a breakthrough will have to be reached through John’s eager agreement to meet with the two most important players in the game: Captain Aldridge, and David himself.</p><p>If that fails?</p><p>Sherlock would have to come up with a nuclear option.</p><p>He swallows loudly in the silent room, hoping that one could be avoided.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><strong>Veterans for Peace Monthly Meeting, </strong>Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire</p><p>“Only those of us that were over there know what went on. For decades the west has been inflicting suffering on the poor and powerless.”</p><p>John sniffs, sitting huddled at the back of the scuzzy meeting hall surrounded by a small group of veterans. He’s come to Buckinghamshire for the evening, to observe Captain Aldridge on what appears to be his own turf these days. It has led him to the <em>Veterans for Peace</em> monthly meeting, which, Sherlock had informed John, Aldridge had been frequenting religiously.</p><p>“The war in the desert, in the oil fields, we’ve brought it back to the streets of Britain,” the group’s leader says passionately. “There are kids growing up over here and all they hear is what’s been done to families and friends over there. Who can blame them if they want to push back?”</p><p>Aldridge sits two rows ahead of John, mumbling in agreement. So far, in the afternoon he’s spent following the man around, there has been a short, furtive visit by bus to Marlow, to Aldridge’sex-wife’s house where she lives with their children and her new husband, a visit to the chemist’s andanother short visit to a local AA meeting (after which Aldridge had downed two cans of beer). Now, here they are in the Veterans for Peace meeting.</p><p>According to Sherlock, the Captain had officially been living in a local bedsit provided to him by a charity, but he spends most of his nights out on the street. Aldridge doesn’t do drugs—at least, not illegal ones. Cheap alcohol seems to be his substance of choice. He hasn’t worked in years. His last known affiliation was indeed with the group of protesters from Future Britain Collective, a right winged pressure group that worked hard to demand that Britain sever any ties with its allies following the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq as well as with its allies in the EU and NATO.</p><p>They’ve been weighing the best way to approach Aldridge for days; the man is traumatized, and the information he may have may prove to be nothing but the figments of a mentally scarred man. They ended up agreeing it’s best to send John up Beaconsfield, seeing as it’s quite far from central London, and Sherlock might be needed in case Stewart does something that requires his immediate presence.</p><p>John sniffs again, swallowing down the unease he’s been carrying throughout the day discovering the sad life the Captain has been leading since his return, wounded and hurt, from the war.</p><p>John still thinks the man is a piece of work, based on everything he’d heard at the pub on the night of Jonathan Palmer’s memorial. But trailing him today, seeing him so lost, so disengaged with the world, reminds John—far too realistically—of the purgatory between returning from Afghanistan and meeting Sherlock.</p><p>Drunk, lonely, staggering. Is this what his life would have looked like if he’d not run into Mike, if he hadn’t taken Mike’s offer to meet a possible flatmate? He only ever agreed because he had nothing better to do that day.</p><p>Would he have made it past his first year in London without Sherlock’s storm turning his life upside down, making him forget about his service gun’s siren call?</p><p>“And when they push back our politicians act like it’s come from nowhere,” the group leader continues, “so they can pass laws restricting our freedoms and order new attacks against the so-called terrorists, and guess what? The cycle of violence goes on.”</p><p>Aldridge seemed to have gone to the AA meeting simply for the coffee and pastry. He left quite quickly, without saying a word to anyone from the group. Here, in this meeting, he seems much more immersed, engaged.</p><p>He doesn’t speak up; perhaps he’d learned from his experiences with Future Collective, who reported his questionable behaviour to his caseworker at <a href="https://www.ssafa.org.uk/">SSAFA</a>. They had him looked over, and a diagnosis was made; Aldridge had since started treatment for his bipolar disorder, assumed to be the result of the trauma he’d suffered from his injuries on the night David and Jonathan were captured.</p><p>So, no. He can’t judge the man. John certainly doesn’t agree with his politics, but he can’t blame him for the hell he’s been living through.</p><p>John is woken from his thoughts when the atmosphere in the room changes. He looks around and finds that the group is slowly dispersing. The group leader is handing out brochures, while Aldridge moves awkwardly towards the exit. He mumbles his goodbye to the people trickling out. He gets no response from any of them, and it aches John’s heart to see a man so painfully invisible in a room full of people.</p><p>Aldridge is not only lonely; he’s actively being shunned, avoided.</p><p>It’s painful to watch, but it might make John’s work here a bit easier. If Aldridge is desperate for somebody to talk to, John will be happy to listen.</p><p>He grabs a brochure from the group's leader before following Aldridge out the door. He has to walk slowly behind him, seeing as the man is using a cane to assist with his crippling injury. It dawns on John, for the millionth time that day, how physically similar Aldridge and Sherlock are from this vantage point. They’re the same height; both wispy thin. The silhouette of a long coat and slight curls would confuse even John if he wasn’t paying enough attention. The only major difference is the cane the man is using.</p><p>When they’re finally out on the street, the air cold and crisp, Aldridge turns sharply, suddenly and looks at John, his gaze clear and measuring.</p><p>“Are you following me?” Aldridge asks, his voice rough.</p><p>“Sorry, mate?”</p><p>“You’ve been following me all day, <em>mate</em>.” Aldridge leans on his cane, taking a step forward. “I was a sniper in Afghanistan. Do you honestly think I wouldn’t notice some wanker tailing me?”</p><p>“There must be some mistake—”</p><p>“Are you one of Emma’s lawyers?” Aldridge asks, referring to his ex-wife. “What does she want now? God knows I’ve got nothing left.”</p><p>“No. God, no, I don’t know anything about that,” John says, raising his hands feigning innocence. “I guess I just have one of those familiar faces.”</p><p>John’s breath catches when Aldridge scans him from head to toe, his stature tall and looming despite the cane.</p><p>“You’ve never been to this group before,” Aldridge says, taking another limp step towards John.</p><p>“No. First time.”</p><p>“We don’t get a lot of new members often.”</p><p>“Only just moved here recently,” John says, fabricating a story out of thin air.</p><p>Aldridge slouches slightly, some of the tension leaving his body. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”</p><p>“Afghanistan,” John says, hiding the jolt of shock the question sends through his body. “Helmand. You?”</p><p>Aldridge's eyes narrow again.</p><p>“That guy who spoke in there—he was excellent.” John forges on. “Wise words. Do you ever go up there yourself?”</p><p>“Soapbox is not really my thing.”</p><p>“Yeah, mine neither.” John releases a sigh and nods, earning him a hesitant nod back from the other Captain. He points at a bench. “Mind if I sit down?”</p><p>Aldridge shakes his head wordlessly.</p><p>“Got divorced recently, so I moved up here. I’ve been trying to put all that behind me, making a proper go of civvie street. I thought I was doing well, you know,” John says, finding a way to reach his actual topic in the conversation. “Not as many nightmares as I used to have. The limp is gone. Things seemed alright with the missus for a while.”</p><p>John turns to look at Aldridge, hoping he might find some sympathy there, but all he finds is a stone-cold glare.</p><p>
  <em>Tough crowd.</em>
</p><p>“But then… The divorce... and with all the news recently, everything started coming back to me.”</p><p>“What news?”</p><p>“Oh, you know. The news about that soldier that came back. The Royal Marine.” John shakes his head. “Poor bastard.”</p><p>John’s words are met with a sudden wall of silence. Aldridge’s eyes become dangerously narrowed again, and he takes three confident steps towards John, who straightens in defence as a result.</p><p>“I know who you are,” Aldridge hisses. “You’re the bloke who works with that detective.”</p><p>John thinks once, twice. “Used to,” he says. “Not anymore. He left the country about a year ago.”</p><p>“I knew you looked familiar. You were at the pub after Palmer’s memorial,” Aldridge says. “Is that what this is about? Are you spying on me for Stewart?”</p><p>“No, absolutely not.”</p><p>“What are you, writing for some rag now?”</p><p>“No, listen—”</p><p>“Then why are you here? Because I don’t believe a word you just said,” Aldridge asserts.</p><p>“I’m just curious, as a soldier. You know, what you said about Stewart,” John says. “What happened that night?”</p><p>“Listen to me, shortarse,” Aldridge spits, his face twisting with anger. “If you were really the army man you claim to be you’d know very well we don’t air our dirty laundry out in public, because no one understands. Do you hear me? No one!”</p><p>“I know—”</p><p>“Whatever beef I have with Stewart, I’ll deal with it myself,” Aldridge says. “And trust me that I will, one day. He’ll get what he deserves, I’ll make sure of that.”</p><p>“Alright, alright,” John says, raising his hands defensively again.</p><p>“Now you get out of here and don’t ever show your face here again, do you hear me?” Aldridge says. “Or I’ll tell the press you and that wanker detective have been harassing a traumatized war veteran. Did you hear me?”</p><p>“Loud and clear, mate,” John says.</p><p>“Go on, now!” Aldridge says, insisting on watching John walking away.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When John walks into the bolthole an hour later, he finds Sherlock pacing like a caged lion, anxious to hear John’s report on his conversation with Aldridge.</p><p>“Oh,” Sherlock says once John is done, his face falling with disappointment.</p><p>“Yeah.” John frowns. “Wasn’t my best performance.”</p><p>“I’ll say.”</p><p>Sherlock never explicitly says anything, but John knows him well enough to read all the tell-tale signs, minute as they might be, that Sherlock is nearing a dead end with this investigation. They’d spent hours discussing Aldridge, and the face off with him turned out to be spectacularly anti-climatic.</p><p>“But there’s a silver lining, I think,” John says. “Well, two actually.”</p><p>Sherlock sits back in his chair, crossing his legs. “How so?”</p><p>“One is that Aldridge is surprisingly sharp for a man in his condition,” John says, “which means that if we ever find another way to approach him, we’ll know he has stories to tell about Stewart.”</p><p>Sherlock hums in agreement. “What’s the second?”</p><p>“Guess who rang me on my way back.”</p><p>“David,” Sherlock says with a small, crooked smile.</p><p>“How did you know?”</p><p>“You forget I follow his every move,” Sherlock says. “He remembered you offered a listening ear. Wants to meet up tomorrow night. You said you’ll get back to him.”</p><p>“That’s the thing,” John says. “I can’t tomorrow. Rosie duty, and it’ll be hard to get out of. Mary is in training for a new job.”</p><p>“Text him back and tell him the truth,” Sherlock says. “Say that you can’t make it tomorrow after all. I’d rather we stick with our original plan. I want David surprised, out of his element.”</p><p>“Yeah, sounds good,” John says, texting David as instructed. He’s distracted by unread texts he’s been ignoring all afternoon when he hears Sherlock clearing his throat.</p><p>“Food?”</p><p>“What’s that?” John asks, brows furrowed in confusion.</p><p>Sherlock’s back straightens in mock disdain. “Are you hungry?”</p><p>“Am I—”</p><p>“I brought…” Sherlock points at a plastic bag in the small kitchenette behind him. “...<em>food</em>. I thought you might be hungry. Perhaps you’d like to stay. Eat.”</p><p>“I…” John says hesitantly, his chest constricting with warmth. Sherlock is… asking him to stay. “Is it poisoned?”</p><p>“Oh, forget it.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.</p><p>“Are you ill?” John smiles uncontrollably. “Should I be worried?”</p><p>“Goodbye, John!” Sherlock says, turning in his chair with his back to John.</p><p>“Starving, in fact,” John says, and it comes out far more desperate than is probably appropriate.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Training?” Sherlock says apropos of nothing as he stabs his food, jolting John in surprise.</p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>“You said Mary’s in training for a new job?”</p><p>John blinks. “Ye— yes.”</p><p>“Care to elaborate?”</p><p>John needs a second to swallow the spicy noodles as he processes the question. “About the training?”</p><p>“A new job?” Sherlock asks. “She left the surgery?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah.” John clears his throat, the topic suddenly making him inexplicably uncomfortable. “Yeah, a headhunter reached out to her.”</p><p>Sherlock only nods wordlessly.</p><p>“It’s in Hanwell. She’ll be head nurse.”</p><p>“The Doctors without Borders clinic?”</p><p>“Yes.” John nods. “Suppose she’s gone philanthropic these days.”</p><p>“Good.” Sherlock nods at first, then his face twists in contemplation. “Is that good?”</p><p>John shrugs. “It’s… what it is.”</p><p>“What sort of training then?”</p><p>“Erm. Head nurse training, I suppose.”</p><p>“You haven’t asked?” Sherlock asks and John shakes his head. “Shouldn’t you?”</p><p>“Why would I?”</p><p>“Isn’t that the sort of thing couples do?”</p><p><em>Yes, it is. But not us. </em>Deep down, he’d like to know as little as possible about Mary and her whereabouts these days.</p><p>“We don’t talk much these days,” he says, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. John’s own eyes fall on the video streams on the screens in front of him, where they’ve been watching David and Alison in different parts of the house, pained and estranged. “It’s not easy sharing a house with a stranger.”</p><p>“No,” Sherlock says solemnly.</p><p>“Sometimes…” John clears his throat uncomfortably. “Sometimes it’s worse than living alone.”</p><p><em>I want to come back to Baker Street when this is all over. </em>The thought materializes of its own volition in his mind. He has to stop it before he utters it. He can’t move back to Baker Street. He’s a father now. A husband, still.</p><p>“I’m sure you can work it out,” Sherlock says. “There are… solutions.”</p><p>“Solutions?”</p><p>“Counsellors. Professionals.”</p><p>“To what end?”</p><p>“I believe the purpose of it is to heal fractured relationships, “Sherlock says. “Preserving the peace at one’s home.”</p><p>“And I’m supposed to tell them what, exactly?” John asks. “I’m unable to forgive my wife for lying about her assumed identity and shooting my best friend so that I don’t find out about it?”</p><p>Sherlock waits a beat before spelling out a thoroughly unironic “<em>Yes.”</em> prompting another incredulous huff from John.</p><p>“Some things are unforgivable, Sherlock,” John says. “Lord knows I tried.”</p><p>“Perhaps you should try harder.”</p><p>“Why?” John asks. “Why should I?”</p><p>“Because,” Sherlock says, “she’s your wife, the mother of your child, and it’s my understanding that these are things people ought to fight for.”</p><p>“It’s not that simple, Sherlock.”</p><p>“How so?” Sherlock asks, sounding genuinely curious.</p><p>“It just isn’t.”</p><p>“Try me, John. I believe I’m capable of grasping complicated ideas.”</p><p>“I—” John stutters. “Why are we talking about this?”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Why do you do that?” John’s voice is higher now, accusatory. “Why are you so insistent on pushing us back together?”</p><p>“You could never be pushed to do anything, John, unless you chose to,” Sherlock says. “If you’re still there, it’s only because you want to. One hardly needs to be a genius to see that—”</p><p>“See what?” John blurts, his anger getting the best of him. “What do <em>you</em> know about relationships? About, about <em>love</em>?”</p><p>The words, cruel and miscalculated, leave John’s mouth and hang ominously in the air, like an impending storm. Sherlock’s lanky frame freezes at the sound of them. “I don’t,” he says coolly, his face arranging far too quickly into an uncaring façade.</p><p>“Christ,” John says, wiping his face. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“No, you’re right,” Sherlock says, his voice flat. “I don’t.” He leaves his chair and heads for the suite's door, grabbing his jacket.</p><p>“I’m sorry.” John tries again, but it’s too late. The damage is done. “Sherlock. Where are you going?”</p><p>The door slams loudly in his face, the sound reverberating through the old building.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Stop loitering, John.” Sherlock’s deep droll proves John’s guess was correct. These days, Sherlock smokes like a chimney, up the roof of the derelict hotel.</p><p>“Those things will kill you,” John says to Sherlock’s back as cigarette smoke leaves the man’s mouth. He looks like a film noir character, watching the city spread below them in all its glory. John puts his hands in his pockets, looking around uncomfortably.</p><p>“It’s Peter Knight’s weapon of choice.”</p><p>“I see,” John sighs, shuffling his legs.</p><p>“I choose to enjoy it while I can.”</p><p>“If you must.”</p><p>For a long moment, Sherlock is quiet, the roof and the city around them so silent and empty, John feels like he should just turn around and leave. But then, Sherlock speaks. Quietly, almost to himself.</p><p>“I may not be a very good man, but I think I’m a bit better than you give me credit for,” he says, staring fiercely ahead. “Most of the time.”</p><p>Sherlock’s words take John by surpise, and he swallows his stupid pride. “I never said otherwise.”</p><p>“I only ever want you to be happy, John.”</p><p>“I—” John starts. “...I know.”</p><p>“I have gone to great lengths throughout the years to ensure that you are, to the best of my abilities. I’ve made sacrifices, far too many for my own good. I’ve shot a man. I got on that plane.” Sherlock continues. “So that you could have a home, a child, a loving family. All the things a good man such as yourself deserves.”</p><p>“I know that, Sherlock. I’m sorry for saying that.”</p><p>“I know you’d like to think of me as some heartless automaton—”</p><p>“No. Christ, Sherlock—”</p><p>“And in many ways I am, but I thought you’d know better by now.”</p><p>When John can’t find a proper response, Sherlock continues in an ever quickening tirade, his voice growing louder and louder with every word. “You have a wife who could have chosen any other life for herself. You may question her methods, but she’s clearly chosen to spend it with you. So correct me if I’m wrong, doctor, but it seems to me that despite our deficiencies, mine and Mary’s, there are not one, but <em>two</em> people, who chose to dedicate themselves to your happiness. That’s double most people pray for in a lifetime—”</p><p>“Sherlock—”</p><p>“It’s far more than <em>some</em> people will ever get—”</p><p>“I know—”</p><p><em>“And do you have the first idea how lucky you are?”</em> Sherlock roars in frustration by the time he finishes.</p><p>The venom in Sherlock’s voice works quickly enough, stunning John into a shameful silence. <em>Lucky</em>? He thinks bitterly. <em>This is what ‘lucky’ feels like?</em></p><p>“Yes,” John says weakly, all fight in him gone. “Yes. You’re right.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I’m staying,” John says from his place on the grubby bed once they’re back at the bolthole, taking his shoes and socks off.</p><p>“You shouldn’t.”</p><p>“Do you want me to go?” John asks, hiding his relief when Sherlock doesn’t answer. “I’m staying, then.”</p><p>John waits for another beat.</p><p>“You should get some sleep, too,” he says. “Come on.”</p><p>Sherlock’s only response is putting on the headphones as he watches the screens.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p><br/>
John wakes from a dreamless doze some thirty minutes later to the sound of a mumbling Sherlock. He’s perched in his chair in front of the screens sipping tea, watching David in his nightly ritual. Much like John, and despite the nine years he’d spent in enemy hands, David is a soldier through and through. He still goes by his evening routine as if he’s in an army barrack somewhere deep in the Middle East.</p><p>John takes in the strange sight from the bed, surreptitiously watching one man as he watches another.</p><p>“Comb.” Sherlock's voice is hushed, taking another sip as David grabs a comb from the dresser in the bedroom after a shower.</p><p>“Deodorant,” Sherlock mumbles again. In his home, unaware of an audience, David stares sternly at his own reflection in the mirror as he applies deodorant under his armpits. When he finishes, he looks around, searching for something.</p><p>“Al?” David calls. “Have you seen my—”</p><p>“First drawer,” Sherlock says, taking another sip as David opens the first drawer, pulling out a vest. John knows him well enough to read the crooked, satisfied smile Sherlock is wearing at the moment.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock isn’t there when John wakes the next morning, alone in an empty room. If the man had slept at all, there’s no sign of it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Comments make me happy! I literally drop everything I'm doing/holding/eating to read them. Don't be comment shy, make a Johnlocker happy by letting me know what you think 🥳</p><p>-</p><p>We can all agree I'm capable of writing fics by now, by I still suck at maths 🤷. The chapter count for Part I was incredibly ambitious at 30, but the truth is that I won't need 30 chapters for it. I updated the chapter count and I think Part I will end in about 3-4 chapters. Just so you know.</p><p>-<br/>I discovered <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bodyguard_(British_TV_series)">'Bodyguard' </a> after I began writing this story. Bodyguard's David would have been a wonderful David in Turned, but they're not the same character (and Wiggnis is there, too!). I have, however, borrowed from the show in this chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. On the Matter of Trust / Liquid Courage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw for descriptions of physical and emotional torture (framed by two asterisks ** in case you want to skip it) and animal death/killing (framed by three asterisks ***  in case you want to skip it)<br/>-<br/>Look at the beautiful(!!!!!) art inspired by Sherlock in chapter 14, created by reader and artist <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28812786/chapters/70663527">Ketty</a>. I already thanked her a million times since she posted it yesterday, but isn't it gorgeous?</p><p>  </p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>On the matter of trust</strong>
</p><p>John closes the door behind him that morning slowly, hesitantly. He can feel Mary’s presence in the house with every fibre of his being.</p><p>He’d spent the better part of the morning lying wide awake in a bed that wasn’t his, the empty space on it a void tugging painfully at his heart.</p><p>He can’t blame Sherlock for shutting him out last night over his harsh words about love. The accusation was cruel, condescending. It’s a trap John unfailingly falls into, every time his heartache meets Sherlock’s wall of indecipherable indifference. It’s frustration, plain and simple, and it’s always directed unfairly at the one man who doesn’t deserve it.</p><p>He’d left the empty bolthole not an hour ago with his tail between his legs. He’d hoped staying the night would help ease the tension. Instead, it seemed to make it worse, both with Sherlock and Mary- he realizes when he finds her in the kitchen, scanning him from head to toe as he enters.</p><p>
  <em>Right.</em>
</p><p>“Good morning,” he says, stepping over to the counter, puttering around for tea. Mary smiles tightly. “How’s Rosie?”</p><p>“Napping.”</p><p>“Right. Good.” John clears his throat. “I thought we could talk.”</p><p>She turns around in her chair, looking at him over her shoulder with a hint of surprise. “Alright,” she says coolly, her voice tense.</p><p>John sits down opposite her at the table, rubbing his hands on his thighs uncomfortably. “So, a new job.”</p><p>She nods back, her lips tight in expectation.</p><p>“Hanwell?” he asks and she nods. “Head nurse?”</p><p>“At the free clinic,” she says and nods again. “For undocumented refugees.”</p><p>He smiles, and he wonders if there’s any chance that smile reaches his eyes. “Full time?”</p><p>“Part time, for now. For a couple of months, at least. An adjustment period for Rosie’s sake,” she says. “They’re very considerate.”</p><p>“Weekends in Calais?”</p><p>“Sometimes weekdays, too. Overnight,” Mary says. “There’s a rotation system.”</p><p>“Right, I see,” he says nervously. “Is that mandatory?”</p><p>“Mandatory?” She frowns. “Not mandatory, but it is a Doctors without Borders clinic. It’s generally recommended leaving the borders every once in a while.”</p><p>John taps the table restlessly, carefully considering his next words. “I don’t think that’s going to work, Mary. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“It means I…” he starts, “I don’t feel comfortable with you going away like that. Considering your… history.”</p><p>“My <em>history</em>?”</p><p>“Yes,” John says. “Your history. I’m not comfortable with you leaving the country, not knowing where you are, what you’re doing.”</p><p>“What does my history have to do with any of this?”</p><p>“I wish I knew,” he says. “No, actually, scratch that. I really don’t want to know. But I do know enough to feel uncomfortable thinking about my highly trained, lethal spy of a wife who’s real name I don’t know, leave the country once a week doing God knows what. Can you honestly blame me?”</p><p>“This is the twenty-first century, John—”</p><p>“No, don’t pull that card on me,” John says. “You know very well that’s not what’s going on here.”</p><p>“Then what, exactly, is going on here?” she asks.</p><p>John looks away as he considers his words carefully.</p><p>“You don’t trust me.” She speaks before has a chance to. “You said you’d forgiven me.”</p><p>“I did say that, yes,” John says. “And I meant it at the time. I tried, Lord knows I tried. But this… I can’t. I can’t Mary, I’m sorry.”</p><p>Mary crosses her arms, huffing as she plans her next move.</p><p>“I get it,” he says, hoping to sound rational, sympathetic. “That you’d want to work someplace else. It’s too… crowded, working and living together, claustrophobic. I get that, I do.”</p><p>“It wasn’t, before,” she says.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“You never minded that with Sherlock.”</p><p>He looks away again, biting his lips. He can’t deny that.</p><p>“You never mind anything Sherlock does,” she says. “You never have. And he's done some terrible things to you, John.”</p><p>“Can you not bring up Sherlock now? We’re not talking about him.”</p><p>She stands angrily, moving away from the table. “You do realize he’s not the saint you make him out to be, right?”</p><p>“Oh, I’m well aware of that.”</p><p>“You never really asked yourself why, did you?”</p><p>“Why what?”</p><p>“Why he forgave me.”</p><p>“Who said he ever forgave you?” John face twists in anger.</p><p>“He never judged me, you know.” She leans against the counter, crossing her arms again. There’s a determined glimmer in her eyes, one he used to love, before. “In fact, I think he knew exactly what I was the day we met and never really cared. He never cared, because he couldn’t judge me. He’s no better.”</p><p>“Mary, come on-”</p><p>“What did you think he was doing when he was gone, that first time?” Mary's eyes narrow, scanning John's face intently. “Helping Hungarian grannies cross the street? Selling biscuits in Turkey?”</p><p>John squirms in his chair as a sense of panic fills him, her words hitting hard like a punch to the gut.</p><p>“What do you think he was doing this past year?”</p><p>“He saved that man’s life,” John snipes.</p><p>“Is that what he told you?”</p><p>“He didn’t need to tell me,” John says, his blood nearly boiling. “I saw it on the news. We both did. He saved that man from years of torture and imprisonment. He did something this country has failed to do for years.”</p><p>“Well, Sherlock is nothing if not a man of excellent timing.”</p><p>John’s eyes narrow in suspicion.</p><p>“Just… don’t you think it’s odd?” Mary continues. “Last time he came back, it was exactly when this country needed to be rescued. A terrorist attack. He came back this time after saving a soldier who’s been gone for nine years.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“So?” She laughs.</p><p>“Honestly, Mary,” he says. “This is beneath you. The man shot Magnussen for you. He sacrificed his career, his life, for you—”</p><p>“For <em>me</em>?”</p><p>“Yes, Mary, for you!” John yells. “‘Give Mary my love, tell her she’s safe now’. That’s what he said. He did it for you!”</p><p>“Oh, John.” She cries in exasperation, throwing her hands in the air in disbelief.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Do you honestly believe I was the only one Magnussen had something on?” she says. “What about Sherlock’s secrets? What did Magnussen have on<em> him</em>? On Mycroft?”</p><p>“Stop this, Mary—”</p><p>“But of course he’ll have you believe he did it for me, for us,” Mary says, “and of course you’ll believe every word coming out of his mouth, no matter how much he lies. And yet I’m the one you don’t trust.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“No, John—”</p><p>“<em>I said</em>, shut up! Stop this right now!” John says. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at here, but it’s not going to work.”</p><p>“I’m not playing at anything, John. I’m just saying, that one day you’ll have to accept that he’s no better than me.”</p><p>“You lost the right to ask for my trust when you lied to me. When you shot him—”</p><p>“Magnussen had information on me, John. I did what I had to do—”</p><p>“You didn’t have to! That’s the point, Mary. That’s the whole point!” He stands up, pointing an accusing finger at her as his voice cracks in pain. “You were supposed to make everything better. You were supposed to be… <em>not him</em>!”</p><p>Mary stands there, defiant against his accusations.</p><p>“You, you look at me and all you see is the fool you married, but guess what? I’m not as stupid as you’d like to think. I have enough to take you down if I choose to, even if it means I’m going down with you. Did you hear me?”</p><p>“Oh, are we threatening each other now?” she asks, her eyes narrowing dangerously.</p><p>“You’ve been threatening all of us a long time now, Mary. But trust me, if I come to harm—if Sherlock comes to harm—there’ll be hell to pay this time,” John says. “That’s a promise.”</p><p>They stare at each other wordlessly for a long minute, having reached a tense impasse. The stalemate suddenly gets interrupted by Rosie’s wails, who must have sensed their argument.</p><p>“I’m taking the job, and I’ll go wherever I damn well want to,” Mary says as she storms out of the kitchen. “You can choose to go on ignoring the truth for as long as you want, John, but don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart again.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><em>Ridiculous</em>, John huffs, pacing and shushing a fussy Rosie in her nursery. <em>How dare she. Swear to God, she’s the most self-centred, ungrateful person I’ve ever met.</em></p><p>
  <em>And I’ve met Sherlock Holmes.</em>
</p><p>“It’s alright, love,” he whispers in Rosie’s ear. It doesn’t work, though. Of course it doesn’t. Babies are stress barometers, and they don’t lie. The mood at the house is strained, and she has been picking up on it.</p><p>
  <em>What about Sherlock’s secrets?</em>
</p><p>No. No. He won’t let her words get to him. His relationship with Sherlock is frayed as it is, and Mary’s a master manipulator. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Exactly where to aim.</p><p>
  <em>What did you think he was doing when he was gone, that first time?</em>
</p><p>He doesn’t know. He never wanted to know. He asked when Sherlock came back, but the ambivalence of it all allows him to sleep at night. All he knows is that Sherlock is… Sherlock is a good man. He knows it deep in his heart, he can feel it in his core. Others have tried to persuade him otherwise, but it didn’t work.</p><p>
  <em>Christ.</em>
</p><p>He closes his eyes in defeat, despite himself, unable to push down the fear slowly enveloping his heart like a cold wind, sneaking up on him like a ghost from the past.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Liquid Courage</strong>
</p><p>The car park looks like any other car park; the building oddly reminiscent of the same building as the one that housed the Veterans for Peace meeting up in Beaconsfield. But this is London, and tonight’s meeting is a much more standard veterans’ support group meeting.</p><p>He adjusts his earpiece as he looks at the rearview mirror, repeating the plan in his mind. David is running a few minutes late, and just as John is about to speak to the earpiece in order to share this observation with Sherlock, he sees David strutting down the road.</p><p>“He’s here,” John whispers as he leaves the car, making his way behind David into the small community centre. He’s still a few steps behind him when David enters the meeting, hesitant. John can sense the change in the atmosphere of the room immediately—all eyes are turned to David, as people whisper and gawp at him over coffee and pastries.</p><p>David stops in his tracks and turns around in a panic, causing John to bump right into him.</p><p>“Oi!” John calls, genuinely surprised. “Oh, hi.”</p><p>“Hullo,” David says, his eyes focussing quickly on John. “Hey, it’s you.”</p><p>“And there’s you.” John smiles.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” David asks with a careful smile. “Are you following me?”</p><p>“Oh, I could ask you the same question,” John says, pointing at the room. “Just… coming in for my quarterly top up. You know what it’s like.”</p><p>“Oh, you’re in this…?” David says and looks behind him. “Well, that’s quite a coincidence. Ian, right?”</p><p>“Yes, yes. Used to live around here before I got married,” John says. “Tried other groups but Michael, he’s the best.”</p><p>“Yeah, I”—David says shaking his head, still surprised—“I talked to Michael. He sounded great.”</p><p>“Look, I’m sorry, I had no idea you were in this group,” John says.</p><p>“I'm not. It's my first time.”</p><p>“Well, then,” John feigns an apologetic gesture. “It’s all yours.”</p><p>“It's fine with me if you want to stay,” David says.</p><p>“No, it’s alright. You probably need it more than I do,” John says. “I’ll just go with a pint this time.”</p><p>“Are you alright?” David asks.</p><p>“Yeah, of course. You should go in. They’re getting started.”</p><p>“Hey, look, I'm not going back in if it means you can't go in.”</p><p>“Please, really, that's... that's not necessary.”</p><p>“Or maybe we could hold our own private meeting out here?” David asks. “Seems like neither of us is very anxious to go in, anyway. Truth is I’m only here because I promised my wife I’d do it. She says I should talk to someone.”</p><p>“Ah,” John says, putting his hands in his pockets. “Then I guess we’re in the same boat.”</p><p>“I guess so.” David smiles, and this time it’s a genuine smile.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Another?” David asks, raising a hand to signal the bartender.</p><p>“Driving.” John shakes his head.</p><p>“Good lad.”</p><p>John hums in agreement as David signals the bartender for another pint for himself. “Much better than the support group.”</p><p>“Yes, I’d say so,” David says. “Nice place. Quiet. They don’t know you, though. You’re not a regular.”</p><p>“No, I try to make a point not to be a regular, actually,” John says. “Makes me uncomfortable.”</p><p>“Smart.”</p><p>“If you say so,” John says, and David laughs.</p><p>“So you’re still a doctor, then?”</p><p>“Yes. A GP.” John nods. “Not as exciting as patching a bloke up in the desert sands of Helmand, but it pays the rent.”</p><p>“Right,” David says solemnly.</p><p>“Christ, I’m sorry,” John says. “Didn’t mean to sound insensitive.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” David says dismissively. “It’s refreshing, rather. Everyone’s been so sensitive around me it’s been getting on my nerves. Can’t stand it.”</p><p>“It’s like a different universe, isn’t it?” John asks. “Afghanistan. Like it resides in its own space, its own time. Somehow I both miss it and hate it.”</p><p>David nods in agreement, picking up a peanut from a bowl on the bar.</p><p>“Do you miss it?” John asks.</p><p>“I miss… I suppose I miss the days before… everything,” David says. “I miss the lads, you know.”</p><p>“Yeah, of course.”</p><p>“I miss the man I used to be,” David says, staring into the distance. “I’ll never be that person again.”</p><p>John hums, encouraging David to continue.</p><p>“Everyone seems to think I somehow came back <em>better</em>. Like I have something to offer, some experience gained from sitting in a hole for nine bloody years.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Just that… People expect these great words of wisdom out of me. The press, they’re hounding the house waiting to hear what I have to say,” David says. “This bloke came over the other day. I say bloke. He was Chief of General Staff ages ago. He runs this organization now that helps veterans stand for Parliament. Says I’ll be perfect for it. That I’ll represent veterans in government like nobody else can.”</p><p>John did know that. He’d watched the conversation unfolding live on Sherlock’s screens at the bolthole the other day.</p><p>“He’s not wrong. Having more veterans as MPs could do a lot of good for us lot.”</p><p>David laughs bitterly. “I hate politicians. I hate politics. I’m not sure he’d like to hear what I have to say about his precious government.”</p><p>“Fair enough.” John smiles back.</p><p>“And they want me—” David continues, “they want me to give a speech to a bunch of crows. Encourage them. Convince them they’ve made the right choice.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“I have a rehearsal coming up in a few days. Need to write it and everything.” David turns to look at John, his eyes turning dark with honesty. “But here’s the thing. I don’t think it’s the right choice. What I really want to tell them is to run for their lives.”</p><p>“Better not do it, then,” John says, amused.</p><p>“Suppose not.” David chuckles in return.</p><p>“Do you need to get that?” David asks when John looks at his mobile, seeing Mary’s name on the screen.</p><p>“No,” John says, pocketing it.</p><p>“Wife?”</p><p>John nods. “Yours is lovely. Saw you two on telly.”</p><p>There’s a long, stretching moment before David speaks. “It’s a disaster.”</p><p>“Oh,” John says. “I’m sorry, mate.”</p><p>“I don’t know how to tell her,” David says. “How to break it to her. She’s waited for so long, and she has this image of me in her mind, but the truth is… the truth is, for years, I didn’t much fancy my chances of coming back and I… I said my goodbye deep down, I suppose. And when I came back they just took me into some room and there she was, looking at me like...”</p><p>“I’m sure if you give it some time—”</p><p>“This is something time won’t be able to fix.”</p><p>“Why do you say that?”</p><p>“We were so young when I left. And she… she was everything to me. I’m an orphan. She was my first real family. And I... used to think I was invincible. You know, I had my whole life ahead of me,” David says. “I found this beautiful girl, and she looked at me like I was her whole world. Like I was the best thing that ever happened to her. I promised I’d give her everything she deserved. That’s the whole bloody reason I left for Afghanistan in the first place.”</p><p>John’s lips twist in sympathy. Isn’t that why most people go, really? Sure, patriotism is a fine thing, but most of the soldiers he’d met in Afghanistan—Brits, Americans, French—they were an unholy crowd of lost individuals, hungry for excitement and hoping to find a new purpose in their lives.</p><p>“And now what?” David asks, his voice breaking. “What can I possibly give her now?”</p><p>“I felt the same at first. It feels like the world has moved on without you,” John says softly. “Life didn’t make sense at first, but then, if you’re lucky…” David looks at John, waiting for his next words. “I met someone when I came back,” he says. “And things made sense again. Life made sense. It took a while, but it’s possible.”</p><p>“I’m not talking about work… or politics. About… painting the house new colours that make me feel like I belong,” David says. “She actually offered that.”</p><p>“Nice.” John smiles.</p><p>“It’s just…” David whispers, “have you ever had an out-of-body experience? Like your mind is floating outside your body, and you’re just watching things happen to… to your body?”</p><p>John swallows when the jolt of memories hits him.</p><p>
  <em>Sherlock’s body on the floor in front of Barts, his beautiful, lifeless eyes staring into the distance. Lestrade picking him up from the hospital chair and shoving him into his Fiat after Sherlock was pronounced dead. Standing outside Sherlock’s room as Mycroft’s men picked up one of Sherlock’s clean suits for the funeral. One of them had asked for John’s help. Mrs. Hudson had had to hold him as he toppled backwards, collapsing at the mere thought of entering that room, his lips tight and his face white with pain.</em>
</p><p>“I started doing it when they were… When things got really brutal.”</p><p>John clears his throat. “You were… tortured?” </p><p>David nods, a pained look on his face.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>**“It was simple stuff at first. Things they told us to expect in training. They had me sitting on a stool twenty-four hours, for ten days straight. If I dared move a muscle they’d come at me with fists and the barrels of their guns. I don’t think I slept the entire time. That didn’t work, though. I never broke. I didn’t tell them anything besides a fake name and address. So they chained me to the ceiling, had me hanging from my wrists. Called me ‘pig Jesus’. I can’t tell you how many times they had to relocate my shoulders. They’d place this device between my legs,” he continues, “a few of them would hold my shoulders, then that device gave me electric shocks. After that, my feet stopped working for a while.””**</p><p>“Christ,” John mumbles.</p><p>**“One day they took me out of the building and had me standing in front of a wall. The lot of them stood in front of me with their guns ready, like a firing squad, then had my eyes covered. They told me to count to ten. And I… I wet myself. And I cried. I wailed like a wounded animal. And they all fired at once, but not at me. Just… around me. And they laughed. They laughed and laughed.” **</p><p>John blinks helplessly at his pint, unable to find the words.</p><p>“And those were only the first few weeks there.”</p><p>“Jesus.”</p><p>“D’you know what the intel officers told me when I came back?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“That it all sounds standard. ‘Standard torturing techniques’.” David laughs incredulously. “Can you believe their nerve?”</p><p>“No… that’s... unbelievable.”</p><p>“But that’s my point, you see. They bludgeoned the man I used to be out of my body there on the floor in Afghanistan,” David whispers. “If she’d seen me lying on the floor there, she would have been disgusted. She would never want anything to do with me again. I’ve nothing left to give her.”</p><p>David’s hushed words put a lump in John’s throat. He remembers his first night with Sherlock at the bolthole, watching Alison carefully, gently, kissing the scars on David’s back. <em>‘Did he tell you about it?’</em> he asked Sherlock that night. <em>‘Did you tell him about yours?’</em></p><p>John looks away, frustrated. Yes, he did. The man sitting in front of him knows more about Sherlock’s time away then he does. But then… John shakes his head. What would he have done if Sherlock was the one sitting here in front him, telling him about firing squads, dislocated shoulders, electric shocks?</p><p>“No, David… you, you can’t punish yourself over their cruelty,” John says tightly. “Nothing they’ve done to you is your fault. If you do, that means they’ve won.”</p><p>“Of course they bloody won!” David hisses at John with a surprising amount of anger. “They had me for nine years. They wanted to destroy me. Yeah, I came back, but what now? What do I do now? Why would she have kids with me? What kind of future can she have with a man who can barely stand her touch on his skin? I can’t stand her touching me, mate. It makes my skin crawl.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh god.</em>
</p><p>“Listen…” John clears his throat uncomfortably. “I know what it’s like. Waiting… waiting for someone. Grieving. You may feel that way, but you have to know that you coming back… it’s a miracle for her. I’m sure she’s incredibly happy to have you back.”</p><p>“She’s met somebody else,” David says with a sigh.</p><p>John swallows.</p><p>“And as for me…” David says. “There’ve been others. I’m not a saint. Maybe we weren’t in the good place we thought we were before I left.”</p><p>John looks away, lost for words.</p><p>“Lots of the lads from the section told me they’re divorced or separated,” David says, swirling his pint. “Just couldn’t get it together after they came back.”</p><p>“Yeah.” John sighs. “It’s quite common.”</p><p>“You too?” David asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”</p><p>“It’s…” John clears his throat and shakes his head. “Not… not great.”</p><p>“That’s too bad. You made it sound as though she’d turned your life around after you came back.”</p><p>“Oh, no. That was...” John says. “We haven’t been married long. She only ever knew me as a veteran.”</p><p>“You have a daughter, yeah?” David asks. “You mentioned the other day.”</p><p>“Yes. Eight months old.” He smiles.</p><p>“So what went wrong?”</p><p>“Oh,” John says, his breath catching. “Everything. Nothing. A lot of… secrets. Possibly… rushed into the marriage.”</p><p>“Do you think you’re going to stick it out?”</p><p>“I don’t—” John says. “I don’t know. Probably… probably not. Depends.”</p><p>“On what?”</p><p>“On what’s waiting for me out there, I suppose.” He laughs uncomfortably, shaking his head. “Which is not a lot, honestly.”</p><p>“I think I’d like to start over,” David says. “Tell my wife to stay with that bloke she has wrapped around her finger. Can’t blame her for looking for somebody else, can I? Couldn’t have waited forever.”</p><p>John's feels like an anvil has landed on his head. "No. I suppose not."</p><p>“It would be… selfish. Wouldn’t it? To expect her to… to choose me,” David says. “Here she is, starting a new life with somebody and I just… storm back in. Disturb the balance. A good man would just… step aside. Let her be happy.”</p><p>He knows, <em>he knows</em> he should say something back, something wise, but David’s words put a lump in his throat David scans John’s face intently, confused by John’s lack of response. “Well, there it is, I guess.”</p><p>John shakes his head, urging himself to speak. “I’m sure she would have had, though. Waited. If she’d even the tiniest hint that you’re still alive.” He says, finally finding his voice. He looks at David, but his words are not aimed at him. “I would have.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” David asks, his brows furrowed.</p><p>“Nothing,” John says, shaking his head. “Forget about it.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“So what happened with your commander, then?” John asks.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“The one you had the fight with in the pub that other time,” John says. “You seemed to be at each other’s throats.”</p><p>David glares at him, hesitant.</p><p>“If you don’t mind me asking,” John says. “It just doesn’t seem like something a CO would do, even after all these years.”</p><p>“He’s an arse.” David swallows. “He always has been. When we first met him—the section—we worshipped at his feet. He started out as a sniper, too. He was a legend. But then we… we know things about him. I saw him doing things that…”</p><p>“He would loot. Steal. Small things, packets of cigarettes. Personal belongings from villages we’d pass through,” David says. “It wasn’t right. You don’t do that.”</p><p>“No, of course you bloody don’t,” John says, his face souring.</p><p>“He’d pick on us all. Laugh at us. But mostly Jonathan,” David says. “Homophobic stuff. Jonathan was gay, and he wasn’t ashamed about any of it. Never. Even though… you can’t. Well, you couldn’t, not back then.”</p><p>“Yeah,” John says. “Not sure you still can.”</p><p>“At some point it just became… cruel,” David continues. “We all knew Jonathan was crazy about animals. Especially dogs. He used to volunteer with the RSPCA before. Had three dogs at home. Had to pet every dog we found there, in the deset. It was lovely, really.”</p><p>*** “You know how… when we were sent on patrols, into a village at night,” David says. “The intel officer would tell us there were verified Taliban fighters that we had to go and grab. When you approach a village at night, the dogs are the first to notice. They bark and bark and soon enough they blow your cover, and before you know it the entire village is up.”</p><p>John closes his eyes, knowing full well where the story was going from there.</p><p>“Aldridge—he made Jonathan…” David sighs. “He knew how much he loved them, the dogs. But he gave him an order. He had him… had him shoot down every dog in the village one time.”</p><p>John's breath catches, his heart twisting in pain. “Jesus.”</p><p>“It broke his heart.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“He cried that entire night,” David says. “I’ve hated Aldridge for doing that to him. I still do.”***</p><p>“No one’s ever reported him?” </p><p>“I’ve no idea.” David shrugs, a sorrowful smile on his face. “We were taken a few days later.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Suppose you’re going to get some sort of commendation, then?” John asks as he watches David gradually turning from tipsy to drunk right in front of his eyes. The grim mood of their earlier conversation has dissipated, and they spend a few moments staring at the telly.</p><p>The truth is that David is… nice. Charming, even. If John hadn’t known Sherlock was suspicious of the man, John would have gladly liked to have David as a mate to go for a pint with every once in a while.</p><p>“God, no,” David says. “I don’t want their awards. Don’t want any of the attention. I’d just like them to apologize.”</p><p>“Apologize?”</p><p>“Yes, apologize,” David says. “For sending us into a war zone just to stay friendly with the bloody Americans.”</p><p>“Oh, you can’t really over simplify it like that,” John says.</p><p>“Why the hell not?” David says. “That’s all there was to it, really. Do you know why we were sent to Farah in the first place? We were guarding a power plant owned by some Texan. So let me ask you this—if the Americans want to guard their stuff in Afghanistan, why do I need to do it?”</p><p>“But that’s not—”</p><p>“That’s exactly what this was, mate. Whose war were we fighting over there?” David says. “What right do I, a regular bloke from Glasgow, have to go and tell the bloody Afghans how to live their lives? Enforce democracy on them? They want to fight? Let them! What right did we have going in there like some Spanish conquistadors?”</p><p>“Come on mate, you know how much the civilians were suffering,” John says. “That alone was worth a war.”</p><p>“Was it?” David asks, looking deep into John’s eyes. “Was it really? Was it worth your injury? Your job? The life you had before you left?”</p><p>John looks away, too emotional to respond.</p><p>“They said we went there to save them, and yeah, it seemed like it at the beginning. When we first came in, the children would greet us with rice,” David says. “But then I had to aim my gun at those children when they shot RPGs at us. I mean young children. Ten, eleven years old, and their missiles killed some of my best friends. I never signed up for that. Never, mate.”</p><p>They’re distracted when a newscaster’s voice from the telly interrupts them. In an incredible case of serendipitous timing, John realizes, reports are coming in about a thwarted terrorist attack on London.</p><p><em>“No one was injured in the attack on a packed train en route to London Euston Station,” </em>the reporter says.</p><p>“Oh my god,” John says.</p><p>
  <em>“Downing Street has revealed that the Prime Minister has called a meeting of COBRA, the Government’s emergency committee, and insists that his Government remains resolute in determination to root out terrorism.”</em>
</p><p>“Who can blame them?” David mumbles.</p><p>“What’s that?” John asks.</p><p>“I mean… we came over there, ruined their lives, their home,” David says. “How are we any better than the people on that train?”</p><p>“Well, whoever was on that train is a terrorist, for one.”</p><p>“Or a freedom fighter. We came to their home, they’re coming into ours,” David says. “Terrorists, freedom fighters. Depends on whom you’re asking, innit.”</p>
<hr/><p>“This is me,” John says pointing at his car, unlocking it. They’ve been in the pub for nearly two hours, and David is beyond any productive conversation at this point. “Do you need a ride?”</p><p>“I’ll be alright,” David says, waving his hand in dismissal.</p><p>John looks around the dark, empty car park, the quiet backstreet around them. It’s not a very central location, and he’s not sure it’s fair to leave David stumbling around as he makes his way home.</p><p>“You sure?”</p><p>“Yeah, still a bit early for me. I’ll walk it off. Al hates it when I come home drunk,” David says.</p><p>“Well, if you’re sure,” John says hesitantly.</p><p>“Thanks for tonight,” David says. “It was nice to actually talk to somebody who… who understands.”</p><p>“Yeah,” John says uncomfortably at the pain in the man’s voice. It sounds genuine. “I mean, I’m no Michael but…”</p><p>“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself.” David smiles back as they stand next to John’s car. “I’m sure you’d give Michael a run for his money. At least you didn’t tell me to take it one day at a time.”</p><p>“I think that’s AA.” John huffs in amusement.</p><p>“Is it?” David wobbles around, a crooked smile on his face.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“If you say so.”</p><p>“Good night, then.” John reaches out, offering a handshake. He and Sherlock agreed that if all goes well tonight and David cooperates, opens up, it’s best to encourage him to reach out to John again. “Listen, if you ever need—”</p><p>The glimmer in David’s eyes changes into something else; that same sharp, calculating glare he’d given John the first time they met, behind the pub on the day of Jonathan Palmer’s memorial. Before John has a chance to speak, David crowds him against the driver’s seat door, kissing him.</p><p>John’s body turns into stone, frozen in shock. David presses himself further into the kiss, wriggling closer, as if reading John’s lack of response as an invitation for more.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>John moans into the kiss as his body finally comes to life, and there’s a flash of a desperate battle to give in and take the horribly misguided gesture, hold on to it. But then he lands back on Earth, where Sherlock is listening to every whisper transmitted through the earpiece, where Mary awaits his return home, so she can read his estrangement like an open book; where he’s desperately stuck between the two people who love him the most and yet never really give him any pieces of their true selves.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, pushing the man away from him. “Hey, stop.”</p><p>“Hmm.” David opens his glassy, bleary eyes, stepping away reluctantly. He clears his throat when he sees the look on John’s face. “Oh. I thought—”</p><p>John clears his throat, pushing David away from his body again.</p><p>“I thought you said…” David says. “You said you were unhappy—”</p><p>“Yeah—”</p><p>“And you brought me out here…” David points at the empty car park.</p><p>“Out where?” John laughs uncomfortably. “A quiet pub?”</p><p>“So you didn’t…” David stutters some more, his face crumpling in confusion. “Oh.”</p><p>“Yeah.” John clears his throat, turning towards the car. “I think I’m gonna…”</p><p>“Thanks for…” David says, drunkenly staggering away. “Thanks for listening, I guess.”</p>
<hr/><p>John shuts the door and watches David’s figure disappearing into the night, breathing hard when he’s sure David can’t see his reaction. In a second of fleeting recognition, he shoves the earpiece he’d been wearing all night into the glove compartment.</p><p>Hands shaking, John puts the key in the ignition. He clutches the steering wheel, his hands wrapped so tightly around it his knuckles turn white.</p><p>
  <em>Jesus.</em>
</p><p>It’s not the kiss that shook John—he’d kissed men before, done far more than that, actually. And he’ll reserve self-judgement over the part of himself that moaned into the kiss before real life filtered through; it’s been more than a year since he and Mary had sex, or touched each other at all.</p><p>Sherlock is right. Of course he’s bloody right. David is charming on the face of it, but there’s something deeper lurking inside, something abrasive and forceful that shows itself in that glimmer that John had caught sight of twice, now.</p><p>Before they left for the car park, John had half a thought to tell Sherlock he isn’t entirely sure David is what Sherlock claims. From everything John has seen so far, David is a traumatized, broken shell of a man.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>David’s eyes are a bit like Magnussen’s sometimes, he thinks. There are moments when they narrow, where they reveal something completely different. Sherlock <em>had</em> spent more time with the man—two bloody months in Gaza—so he must have seen what John does, maybe more.</p><p>He takes a deep, measured breath; the doctor in him kicks into action, in an attempt to calm his nerves. Sherlock is waiting for him at the bolthole. Sherlock, who’s been listening to every word, hearing John confessing to David about things he’d never tell anyone else.</p><p>Nothing for it.</p><p>Best to just get this over with.</p>
<hr/><p>“That was… something,” John says hesitantly as he enters the bolthole, taking his jacket off. The room is messy, the desk overflowing with takeout boxes and paper cups. John looks around, scans the screens quickly.</p><p>Sherlock stands ramrod straight staring out the window.</p><p>“Sherlock?” He tries again.</p><p>“Surprisingly dull.” Sherlock speaks to the window.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The whole thing was surprisingly dull.”</p><p>John squints in surprise. “Really?”</p><p>“It all sounded so… scripted.” Sherlock says. “Wasn’t that exactly what you’d expect a disgruntled war veteran to say? I’ve read pages upon pages of testimonies from soldiers who came back from that war, John. They all said exactly the same.”</p><p>“What, even the torture stuff?”</p><p>“Yes. Especially the torture stuff.”</p><p>“I don’t think that’s fair, Sherlock,” John says. “There’s no doubt he was tortured.”</p><p>“I never said there was. But his stories, they almost sound as though they’re rehearsed,” Sherlock says. “As though he’s telling people exactly what they want to hear. You see, they change. The things he told me, the things he told Alison, Jonathan’s sister. They’re all variations on a very questionable truth.”</p><p>“So… what are you saying, exactly?”</p><p>“I’m starting to suspect that perhaps he knows someone might be listening.” Sherlock turns to look at John. “That this is all a part of a game, somehow.”</p><p>“Or, you know…” John starts.</p><p>Sherlock raises a brow when John doesn’t continue.</p><p>“Perhaps he’s not what they told you he is. Perhaps he’s not actually a terrorist.”</p><p>“I never said ‘terrorist’.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“I said ‘turned’,” Sherlock says pointedly. “There’s a big difference.”</p><p>“Right, right.” John blinks, looking away. There’s a tension in Sherlock’s body he’s unable to decipher. “So what’s next?”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t answer for a long time. “I’m not sure,” he says eventually. “I need to think.”</p><p>“Not sure that plan should involve me meeting up with him again.”</p><p>“Why not?” Sherlock turns to look at him again, frowning in confusion.</p><p>“Because of the…” John says. “The kiss. It was...”</p><p>Sherlock’s frown deepens.</p><p>“It was...” John shuffles his legs uncomfortably. “Truth is, Sherlock, the bloke makes me uncomfortable.”</p><p>“John, please,” Sherlock says. “It was just a kiss.”</p><p>The dismissal takes all the air out of John’s lungs, swiftly and unexpectedly. Of course he’d think that. The man who’d proposed marriage in order to get into an office. Well, propose and… Lord knows what else he did to get Janine’s attention.</p><p>Sherlock sighs and moves away from the window, at last. John stares at the screens. Alison stands in the Stewarts’ bedroom, a suitcase open on the bed in front of her.</p><p>“What’s going on here?” John asks.</p><p>“She’s packing,” Sherlock says, sitting down. “She’s been packing and unpacking for days. Gathering the strength to leave him, I think.”</p><p>John’s watches Alison fluttering around the room with uncertainty. His jaw wobbles in sympathy. “She should,” he says, avoiding Sherlock’s sharp eyes as he turns them on John. “After everything he told me tonight, she should leave.”</p><p>
  <em>As should I.</em>
</p><p>“Well, nothing for it tonight,” Sherlock says and stands up, searching for his jacket. “Go home, John. I need to think.”</p><p>
  <em>If you only knew, Sherlock. If you only knew the way she talks about you.</em>
</p><p>John watches him moving around the room, his heart beating loudly. He bites his lips anxiously. “Sherlock?”</p><p>“Mmm?”</p><p>“I never thanked you.”</p><p>Sherlock freezes in place for the briefest second, surprised. “Whatever for?”</p><p>“For everything you did when you were gone,” John says. “That first time.”</p><p>There’s a long, stretching silence. “I didn’t do it to be thanked, John.”</p><p>“No, I know you didn’t,” John says. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you did it. And that you deserve to be thanked and…”</p><p>Sherlock straightens slowly, his back to John.</p><p>“Because I am. Thankful, that is. For… Whatever it was, even if you never tell me.” John stops, takes a deep breath. “I know you think the things David told me today are scripted. But something happened to him, and something happened to you—”</p><p>John stops to take a breath, surprised when Sherlock doesn’t protest his words.</p><p>“And if you found something you needed in him… whatever you want to call it. Comfort, or… friendship… and talking to him made things better than I guess, that’s good.” John speaks through his teeth. “Yeah. it’s good. You both went through something I never… and I just assumed—you seem so unfazed by everything, and I chose to play along with that, when I should have listened and…”</p><p>Sherlock clears his throat, looking down.</p><p>“And I would have, you know. If you’d... if you’d asked, I would have listened.” And it’s only now, that he finishes his stilted speech, that he’s able to actually look at the man.</p><p>And John expects a dismissive wave of hand, a condescending ‘I know you do’, or maybe even just a simple ‘thank you’. Instead, Sherlock’s eyes are bright and dark and John knows, he <em>knows,</em> Sherlock is holding back a deluge of unspoken accusations.</p><p>Accusations John probably deserves. Accusations he’ll gladly take, if Sherlock ever decides to open up and let John in.</p><p>“I just hope you know nothing’s changed. Not for me,” John says, his heart in his throat. “Whatever they did to you… you’re still the same incredible man I thought you were the day I met you.”</p><p>Sherlock stands in front of him—tall, proud, untouchable. You couldn’t be blamed thinking he’d gone through life unscathed. He hides it so well, and it makes John angry. So, so helplessly angry.</p><p>They finally look at each other, acknowledging John’s words the way they always do; with a mutual, tight-lipped nod, acknowledging the problem but never solving it.</p><p>“I’ve made a lot of mistakes from the moment you showed up in that restaurant. And they’re mine. My mistakes. I can’t blame you for any of them. But… there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t wish to go back to...” John says, “before everything. Before all of <em>this</em>—hiding in boltholes, living underground.”</p><p>“That makes two of us, John.” Sherlock finally moves, shrugging his jacket on. “Thank you for helping. It’s been invaluable.”</p><p>John frowns, sensing another dismissal in Sherlock’s voice. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“I’ll take it from here,” Sherlock says. “Aldridge knows who you are. David’s… well. You won’t be much use going forward.”</p><p>“Oh,” John mumbles, disappointed. Hurt. “I’d still like to help, though.”</p><p>“That won’t be necessary.”</p><p>John looks at Sherlock for a long moment, scanning him from head to toe. “Where are you off to, now?”</p><p>
  <em>What about Sherlock’s secrets?</em>
</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Where are you going, at this time of night?” John presses. “What do you do when I’m not here?”</p><p>“I work,” Sherlock says. “I think.”</p><p>
  <em>What did you think he was doing, that first time he was gone?</em>
</p><p>John shakes his head, wishing the nagging thoughts away. “Right.”</p><p>And then Sherlock smiles, a warm, honest smile, and all doubt leaves John's body. “Good night, John.”</p><p>“Good night,” John says, watching him leave.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I want to thank my lovely betas again, for braving through this convoluted story and my made-up metaphors and turn-of-phrases I make up as a non-native English speaker. You rock.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. interlude iii</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>tw: physical violence</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time ceased existing that day.</p><p>For hours on end, he laid one punch, then another into the broken body sprawled on the floor. As the man lay convulsing like a fish out of water underneath his bloody knuckles, he'd wished for death.</p><p>But he wasn’t dead; there was no silence; only the steady rhythm of his stubborn, traitorous heart, a brutal proof of his own cursed survival.</p><p>“<em>Biaa.*</em>”</p><p>“No. No,” he begged, out of breath, his voice barely a whisper.</p><p>“<em>Biaa! Biaa!</em>”</p><p>With the wail of a wounded animal, he rose and grabbed the dying man by his dirty vest, pulling him up towards him. Familiar hazel eyes looked at him, unseeing. He choked down a cry and laid the final blow with a bone-shattering punch.</p><p>He’d lost consciousness then, welcoming the black abyss with open arms, hoping never to wake again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(*‘Again’ in Pashto.)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. London at Night / Breaking Point</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Last week I shared <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28812786/chapters/70663527">Ketty's</a> beautiful rendition of Sherlock in this story. Now, have a look at her beautiful version of John at the bolthole!<br/>Thank you Ketty! </p><p>  </p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>London at Night</strong>
</p><p>“Good night.”</p><p>Sherlock moves quickly to hide himself behind a tree, his hands in his pockets and his earpiece transmitting Elin Thøgersen’s goodbye to the Stewarts. It’s a cold night, and his breath is a white fog against the soft lights glowing from the neighbouring houses.</p><p>Elin’s visit was short and tense. She’d brought flowers, which she hand-delivered with a heartfelt apology to Alison, who offered tea but never really served it.</p><p>The whole thing lasted no more than twenty awkward minutes, during which she also delivered a video camera, as promised. As an extra offering, she included a revised publishing contract that supposedly gave the Stewarts far more control of any PR interactions in the future, to spare further blushes.</p><p>There was a stilted conversation about David’s upcoming speech for the new recruits—the same one David had confessed to John he’s not very keen on. Elin insisted it would be ‘<em>a great PR opportunity</em>’ and suggested writing his speech herself. David mumbled a non-committal reply, and minutes later, Elin closed the door behind her.</p><p>Elin is, for all intents and purposes, a saint. In his usual fashion, Sherlock had vowed not to rely on his brother’s research, and opted for some legwork himself. Incredibly, he couldn’t find one damning piece of evidence; not a fine for jaywalking; not a complaint from a neighbour. He <em>had </em>found an immensely aggravating list of charity work: everything from volunteering at a soup kitchen to spending a year with the Peace Corps. She’s never put a foot wrong.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>Every inch of Sherlock’s body itches with foreboding when it comes to her.</p><p>He hangs behind, letting her gain some distance as she walks down the street. Stealing one last glance at the house, he sees the light in the attic come on. Wincing once again at this permanent blind spot, he sighs and follows.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Odd. Very odd.</em>
</p><p>Elin has led him to one of the most unexpected locations in the city. There she stands, at the bottom of the Edwardian building, close to the entrance of the London Aquarium.</p><p>A quick glance around tells him that the aquarium is closed at this hour. The place is deserted.</p><p>“We’re closed, ma’am,” says an usher standing next to the entrance.</p><p>“I know,” she says with a smile. “Just waiting for a friend.”</p><p>“Come back tomorrow.” The usher nods with a small smile, handing her a brochure as he walks away.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>Elin simply leaves the place ten minutes later; no friend ever arrives. Sherlock watches in confusion as she walks away, his eyes scanning the area one last time.</p><p>A saint. An odd saint with absentee friends.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The attic is silent, just like the rest of the house. David looks hesitantly between the door—<em>locked—</em>then at the box, its contents about to reveal themselves to him. He opens it gently, removing the tape. It’s a brand-new camera, in its original packaging, and then some.</p><p>There’s the camera. Two memory cards.</p><p>He sighs.</p><p>An iPhone. Identical to the one he owns, the one Alison had bought him. A replacement, exactly as planned.</p><p>He places one of the memory cards in the camera. It’s fully charged, just as they’d promised it would be. He moves deeper into the back of the attic, away from the door, and presses play.</p><p>“My son.” A man’s image appears clearly on the screen. “My friend in London tells me you’re refusing to move forward. It’s understandable, of course. You’re in shock. Coming back to your comfortable Western life has confused you.”</p><p>David huffs angrily.</p><p>“If you’re watching this, I hope you’ll remember that we knew this day would come.”</p><p>David gently lays the camera on the table, wiping his face as panic begins to take over.</p><p>“I did not lie to you, Dawud,” the man continues. He speaks softly, gently. “I was sure your Captain had died that night. I was just as surprised as you were to learn he was still alive. I will take care of that. Rest assured, he will not harm you.”</p><p>His jaw tight, David reaches for the stop button, but doesn’t press it.</p><p>“I pray every day… that you never lose sight of what you committed to do in our name,” the man continues. “Don’t fall for their lies. I promised you Allah's forgiveness and, inshallah, you will earn your place in heaven next to him.”</p><p>The video stops, and darkness falls over the attic again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock’s legs carry him all over London that night, as if wandering around the city might yield a solution for his current conundrum.</p><p>The stifling emptiness of the bolthole has been closing in on him like a grave, unable to bear the sight of the decaying room any further. It’s a miserable, lonely existence there, worse than some of his worst days at Baker Street in the months before he’d last left it.</p><p>John’s visits are a light in the dark, but they rarely serve as anything but a painful reminder of their situation, grating on Sherlock’s frayed nerves. Every time John lays his head on the pillow in that room is another stab at Sherlock’s heart.</p><p>The events of this week—their conversation on the roof, the one in which Sherlock’s anger had slipped so spectacularly through the proverbial cracks, and John’s botched evening with David—had sent John away for several days. He hadn’t heard from him since. He supposes that’s a good thing. That was the purpose, after all.</p><p>What good is sacrificing yourself for another person’s happiness, when that person chooses to be miserable? What was the purpose of killing a man for Mary’s sake, for John’s, if John just ends up throwing his marriage away?</p><p>It makes the price of Sherlock’s sacrifice null, and it’s unbearable to think about.</p><p>Of course the marriage isn’t perfect—it never could have been. It was doomed, cursed, right from the start, from the minute Mary snaked into John’s life under a false identity. But Mary, whomever she might be, loves him. She chose him.</p><p>He can’t blame her.</p><p>He knows what it’s like to love John Watson, when you’re deeply flawed. When you’re <em>utterly</em> undeserving of it. Neither he nor Mary deserve John, but if there’s one person in the world Sherlock trusts other than himself to keep John—<em>his John</em>—safe, it’s her.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>She’s not lying, for once. Imagine that.</em>
</p><p>Sherlock takes one last drag from his cigarette, stepping on it carelessly as it hits the floor. Mary stands with a colleague at the entrance to the clinic, in what he imagines is the beginning of a long night shift; they appear to be waiting for something or someone.</p><p>She’s wearing her red coat over her nurse uniform, the same one she wore that day on the tarmac. <em>Pinching on unnecessary purchases since the baby was born; </em>he can’t help but deduce. <em>I remember the shoes too, and the scarf</em>.</p><p>He watches from afar, hidden behind his thick scarf and the constant stream of late night traffic on the high street of Hanwell. <em>Hair is longer, too</em>. There are short, delicate curls crowning her head now. Perhaps she’s grown softer with motherhood. Perhaps she doesn’t have the time or energy to keep regular appointments with her stylist.</p><p>Perhaps she, being who she really is, is never fully comfortable keeping the same look, never changing. Habits tend to crawl in and reside inside you, and knowing the little he knows about her, he’s sure that by this point, she’s a ball of discomfort over living in the same place, staying attached to one person, looking exactly the same.</p><p>A car stops in front of Mary and the woman standing next to her, and they walk over, opening the backseat door. A heavily pregnant woman steps out, grabbing her belly anxiously as she holds on to the car. Mary and her friend reach out immediately, holding her up.</p><p>Sherlock has always wondered whether she was really a nurse; she must be. She’d worked with John for so long, surely John would have cottoned on if something was off. No wonder they’d found each other, Mary and John. It’s rare to find somebody who lives so comfortably being both a healer and a destroyer.</p><p>Sherlock only destroys. That’s his curse. He walks in like a hurricane, leaving nothing intact behind him.</p><p>The driver of the car steps out for a minute, exchanging a few words with Mary and her colleague Sherlock cannot hear. It’s when Mary looks over her shoulder to answer the man that something catches in the crosshair of her sharp glance.</p><p>He can’t see her eyes from this distance, not really, but there’s a jolt of recognition twisting down his spine as their eyes meet. He buries his hands deeper in his jacket pockets, straightening his back.</p><p>She can’t hear his breath catching, his loud exhalation of air. Lucky, that.</p><p>He will never admit this to anyone but himself, but Irene Adler is not the woman who beat him, as much as he likes to tell himself. Mary Watson is. This woman, who went completely under his radar while being right in front of his eyes the entire time.</p><p>It’s only a fraction of a second, that glimpse of recognition. It’s instantaneously disrupted by Mary’s colleague, calling to catch her attention. Mary turns to look at the heavily pregnant woman, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder while leading her into the clinic.</p><p>She doesn’t look back at Sherlock. She doesn’t have to. The message he never intended to send by standing there is clear enough.</p><p>
  <em>I’m watching you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Breaking Point</strong>
</p><p><em>Bugger, </em>Sherlock curses out loud, throwing away his headphones.</p><p>Exactly one month since David came back home, the tension with Alison had reached a boiling point and broke them. Sherlock has been watching it live for days; it’s happening right in front of his eyes, beginning when Alison came downstairs the morning after the car park incident with John.</p><p>David returned home drunk and miserable, never bothering to go upstairs and sleep in their shared bed. Alison, who isn’t an idiot, read the situation for what it was. There was no support group, David was mumbling something about a Captain named Ian, and could she please keep it down?</p><p>David had spent the next few days on a drinking stupor, both at home and outside it, until Alison could no longer stand it.</p><p>Three days after his evening with John, David was packed and left the house by noon. One of his army mates agreed to take him in for a night or two, ‘until you sort yourselves out, mate’.</p><p>David is out of control, and his absence from his house leaves Sherlock completely cut off from the constant information feed he’d got used to.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><em>Now what?</em> Sherlock grumbles to an empty bolthole as he paces around restlessly, hours after David left his home.</p><p>With no eyes and no ears on David the man could be anywhere, doing anything right now. For all Sherlock knows, this could be part of a bigger plan. David’s phone GPS locator indicates he’s still at his friend’s house, but Sherlock knows nothing about said friend.</p><p>Just as he picks up his own phone, going over in his mind the new plan he needs to discuss with his brother, a text message arrives.</p><p>He huffs in satisfaction at the name of the sender.</p><p>
  <em>Wonderful.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Mary looks down at her phone, then back up at the woman about to enter the loos of the quiet shopping centre. The woman’s distinctive strawberry-red hair, tied up, gives her away immediately.</p><p>She shushes Rosie, sleeping peacefully in her baby carrier, shouldering the diaper bag as she follows the woman inside. Once inside, Mary scans the openings underneath the stall doors, relieved to see they’re all empty but one.</p><p>Placing the diaper bag on the changing station, she waits patiently for the other woman to leave the stall while bouncing Rosie.</p><p>“They’re all free,” Alison says with a warm smile once she notices Mary through the large mirror, washing her hands. “Do you need any help with the little one?”</p><p>“Are you Alison Stewart?” Mary asks tightly, never one to beat around the bush.</p><p>Alison frowns with suspicion, her hands freezing mid-movement. “Do I know you?”</p><p>“No,” Mary says, pulling an A4-sized photograph and a business card out of the diaper bag, “but have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“<em>There’s</em> Waldo!” Lestrade’s jovial announcement bounces off the walls of the empty underground car park.</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Could you keep it down?”</p><p>“Look at you, playing hide and seek in the streets of London under an assumed identity.” Lestrade says, approaching Sherlock with a hand in his pocket. “This is exciting, meeting underground like this. Very ‘All The President’s Men.’”</p><p>“I have no idea what that means.” Sherlock huffs snobbishly.</p><p>“Never mind that,” Lestrade claps his shoulder forcefully. “Is that your real hair color?”</p><p>“<em>I’m working undercover.</em>” Sherlock says through gritted teeth. “You said you had something for me?”</p><p>“It’s good to see you too, mate.” Lestrade says, waving a dossier in front of Sherlock’s face.</p><p>“Yes, yes.” Sherlock dismisses him, grabbing the dossier.</p><p>“Right,” Lestrade says with a chuckle. “Well, this isn’t so much about the reporter, but her family. They own a flat in a fancy tower block down at Ruislip Gardens.”</p><p>“Why?” Sherlock asks, twitching his nose in mock disgust.</p><p>“Don’t know. But it’s a posh area, favoured by diplomats.” Lestrade says. “Anyway, there’d been a break-in to their flat the other night. Some neighbours reported it. A suspicious person lurking around, and then he was seen on their balcony.”</p><p>“Burglary?”</p><p>“Nothing was stolen. The place is empty since they don’t seem to live there most of the year.” Lestrade says.</p><p>“They’re not filing a complaint.” Sherlock says, scanning the police report.</p><p>“No, said they’ll figure it out with the management company.” Lestrade says. “Diplomats are like that. They like to keep these things hush-hush.”</p><p>“Any prints? CCTV footage?”</p><p>Sherlock scans the date and time on the few blurry, grainy security photographs. It matches the night of John and David’s evening at the pub.</p><p>“Special Operations are working on that right now,” Lestrade says with a nod, pointing at the photos with his chin. “Thought it was you for a moment. Wears his collar up like a prick.”</p><p>“Lovely as always, Detective Inspector. What’s that he’s carrying on his back?” Sherlock asks, squinting his eyes instinctively.</p><p>“Not sure,” Lestrade shrugs. “Looks like… a guitar case, maybe?”</p><p>“Why would anyone…” Sherlock says.</p><p>“How’s John?”</p><p>“He’s fine.” Sherlock mumbles, distracted.</p><p>“You sure?” Lestrade asks. “He texted me earlier. Wants to meet up for a pint.”</p><p>“Isn’t that what you people do every once in a while?” Sherlock asks, though he’s not really listening.</p><p><em>Ruislip Gardens, </em>Sherlock thinks, tuning the DI out. Nothing was taken. It’s the family home, but they don’t live there. Elin’s flat in Hackney. A break-in could be a coincidence, or not. Ruislip Gardens… a mental map of the area flashes through his mind. <em>Borough of Hillingdon. Gentrification. Central Line. South Ruislip tube stop. Rising housing costs despite…</em></p><p>The realization, when it hits, blinds Sherlock like a stroke of lightning; bits of information connect like molecules, suddenly making sense.</p><p>
  <em>Despite RAF Northolt.</em>
</p><p>Ruislip Gardens overlooks RAF Northolt, where David is due to do a rehearsal of his speech to a bunch of new recruits next week.</p><p>
  <em>‘Thought it was you for a moment. Wears his collar up like a prick.’</em>
</p><p>He looks at the CCTV photograph again, at the tall building and the blurry image of a man standing at the balcony.</p><p>
  <em>Aldridge.</em>
</p><p><em>‘Whatever beef I have with Stewart, I’ll deal with it myself,” </em>Aldridge’s threatening words to John come back to Sherlock’s mind.<em> ‘And trust me that I will, one day. He’ll get what he deserves, I’ll make sure of that.’</em></p><p>Oh.</p><p>
  <em>‘He started out as a sniper, too. He was a legend.’</em>
</p><p>What if… what if it wasn’t David who was turned, but...</p><p><em>“It’ll be a great PR opportunity,”</em> Elin told David, encouraging him to at least attend the rehearsal of his planned speech. Hours later, a legendary sniper appeared at her family house overlooking…</p><p>“Wrong!” Sherlock blurts out with a panic.</p><p>“What?” Lestrade startles, interrupted by Sherlock’s words.</p><p>“Wrong. I got it all wrong!”</p><p>“What are you on about?” Lestrade calls loudly behind him as Sherlock rushes out of the car park.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Another pub, another night escaping the thick, suffocating silence of his home. John sighs, looking at his watch. He was so anxious to leave Mary with Rosie only hours after she came back from her first overnight visit to Calais, that he’s almost an hour early for his pint with Greg.</p><p>Absent-mindedly peeling the label off a bottle sitting on the bar next him, he thinks about the past week. So many things have happened so quickly, his mind is only catching up now and when it does, it goes straight to the overnight bag he’s stowed away in his car when he left home tonight.</p><p>The unexpected kiss from David, to which he’d nearly succumbed to. The overwhelming sense of <em>wrongness</em> he feels in every bone in his body whenever he leaves Sherlock behind in that bolthole; that sense of home he’d felt when he visited Baker Street a few weeks ago, even though Sherlock wasn’t there.</p><p>He’s being presumptuous, packing those bags. And it might not make sense to even consider it right now, while Sherlock is still undercover. But he’d like to have the option.</p><p>There’s something else he needs to take care of though, before all of that. He needs a second opinion.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I see you’ve got a head start,” Greg says as he approaches John with a wide, honest smile.</p><p>“Hope you don’t mind,” John smiles back, pushing down his nerves. He signals the bartender for a pint for Greg.</p><p>“Of course not. You look like you need it.”</p><p>“You have no idea,” John scoffs, but it’s a sad thing. He raises his own pint. “Cheers.”</p>
<hr/><p>They catch up shortly. John does his best to listen to Lestrade’s moans about his superiors, but that part doesn’t last long. Sherlock likes to demean the detective, but he’s a detective nonetheless; John’s anxiousness must show, because the stories end when Lestrade gets a good look at John's pale face.</p><p>“So, what’s going on?”</p><p>“Listen, I hate to do this,” John swallows nervously. “But I need your help. I mean, I might need it, later.” He blabbers. “Not right now. Nothing immediate.”</p><p>“Right.” Lestrade nods, confused. “You wanna tell me what this is about?”</p><p>John licks his lips nervously, unsure how to begin. <em>Should have planned a speech in advance, </em>he berates himself.</p><p>“You in some kind of trouble?” Lestrade asks, then whispers. “Is this about…?”</p><p>“No, God no. Not this time.” John says. “It’s about Mary.”</p><p>Lestrade’s eyes widen in surprise, his attention clearly captured.</p><p>“I don’t know how much you know about…” John starts, “well, a lot of things. But… there are things you don’t know about Mary. Christ, there are things I don’t know about her.”</p><p>Lestrade looks at him as if he’s lost his mind.</p><p>“See, we never said anything but… shortly after we got married I discovered that… there are some things in her past she never told me before.” John says quietly. “She told me about some of them, but I don’t know how much of it was true.”</p><p>“What, and the great detective missed out on that?” Lestrade whispers back and John nods. “How’s that possible?”</p><p>
  <em>I think he knew exactly what I was the day we met and never really cared. </em>
</p><p>“I- I don’t know, to be honest. But things between Mary and I are… bad.” John says. “It’s been hard. And sometimes I worry if one day all of these secrets will come back to haunt her. Us. I need to know my options.”</p><p>“What sort of options?”</p><p>“I’m not sure. But I was wondering if you’d be willing to look into her. Discreetly. See if you can find something, anything about her.” He says, sliding a small envelope containing a few hastily-scribbled details, the little he’s been able to pick up. “It’s not a lot, but maybe you’ll be able to find something.”</p><p>“Why aren’t you asking for Sherlock’s help with this?”</p><p>“Because Sherlock is… busy.” John starts hesitantly, prompting Lestrade to nod weakly. “And this is… this is between Mary and I. I don’t want him involved in this, alright?”</p><p>There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. John can see the multitude of questions the DI has; he’s sure Lestrade sees, knows, much more than he lets on. He doesn’t say as much, but Sherlock trusts him, always has, and that’s enough for John.</p><p>“Have you seen him recently?” Lestrade asks eventually.</p><p>“Who? Sherlock?” John clears his throat, not meeting Lestrade’s eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I have.”</p><p>“He looks just about done in. Thin, exhausted.”</p><p>“Yeah,” John frowns. “The case is... it’s been taxing. I’m going over there now.”</p><p>“Good. Take care of him.”</p><p>Another long silence.</p><p>“Are you going to be alright?” Lestrade asks eventually as he signals for a bill. “I’m buying.”</p><p>John smiles, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I think so, just… just keep Sherlock out of this. Don’t let him bully you into getting involved.”</p><p>“When has Sherlock Holmes ever bullied me into anything?” Lestrade huffs, and John returns the favour, a genuine one this time.</p>
<hr/><p>John releases a deep sigh, watching himself in the rearview mirror. His overnight bag beckons from the backseat, slumped next to Rosie’s car seat. He’s parked out on the street, right in front of the bolthole’s abandoned car park, waiting for the bin lorry blocking its entrance.</p><p>He hasn’t spoken to Sherlock for three days; hit yet again by yet another wall of defence in return for his own heart hanging on his sleeve. He’s been bracing himself all day for seeing Sherlock again, for coming with a question Sherlock might not like.</p><p>He wipes his face in frustration when the lorry doesn’t move, but a sudden movement catches his eyes. A man walks out of the car park, looking around, down the street.</p><p>It’s Sherlock.</p><p>John frowns, but before he has a chance to think anything about it, a car arrives in the opposite lane, slowing down in front of Sherlock’s hooded figure, lowering his window to speak to him.</p><p>He blinks, careful not to move as he squints in order to get a better look. And when he finally does, when the shadows move just so, his breath catches in his throat.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Peter.”</p><p>Sherlock nods hesitantly at the man in the car. His back straightens automatically as he sticks his hands in his pockets.</p><p>“Hold on a second,” David says, looking down the street. “Let me park so we can talk properly.”</p><p>“No, this will only take a minute. No need.”</p><p>“What?” David says, ignoring Sherlock’s protestations. He opens the door and steps out of the car, standing squarely in front of him. “It’s so good to see you. I thought I might have-”</p><p>“David, I think your life might be in danger.” Sherlock blurts out quickly.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I can’t tell you how or why, but I needed to warn you,” Sherlock says. “Don’t give that speech next week.”</p><p>David blinks, the smile melting away from his face, turning into a bitter frown.</p><p>“You know what I do for a living, David. I hear things. I know things.” Sherlock says, speaking clearly and quickly. “I know you were invited to give a speech and though I can’t tell you the whole of it, I can tell you it might be dangerous, so don’t. Don’t do it.”</p><p>There, he said it.</p><p>Sherlock nods defiantly, turning to move away.</p><p>“Oh,” he stops for a split second before actually moving. “And you should probably go back to live at home with Alison, just in case.”</p><p>“Hold on! Just in case what?” David says. “Peter?”</p><p>Sherlock takes a big breath. “Listen, we can’t be seen here much longer. I just thought—”</p><p>“Thought what?” David says accusingly. “What are you playing at, Peter? Last week I was begging to talk to you, and now you just text me to spring all of this on me and just leave?”</p><p>“David—”</p><p>“Just what the hell is going on here?”</p><p>“I can’t tell you, exactly—-”</p><p>“Well, I deserve to know, if my life is in danger, wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>“You have to go,” Sherlock insists. “Before anyone sees us together.”</p><p>“Then get in.”</p><p>Sherlock is the one blinking now. “What?”</p><p>“If we can’t be seen here together, and I deserve some answers, then get in.” David points at the car. “We’ll find some place to talk properly.”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“I don’t know, I’ll think of something.” David says, raising an eyebrow. “You comin’?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>John sees Sherlock closing the car door behind him once he climbs inside it.</p><p>
  <em>Christ, Sherlock. What are you up to?</em>
</p><p>He watches the car passing him by, every cell in his body boiling with a mixture of fear and suspicion. Before he knows it, his body moves of its own volition, following David’s car.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>While you're waiting for next week's chapter, why not enjoy the new <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28928181">podfic version of one of my first fics ever, I Have not Lingered</a> about Sherlock's time away after TRF?</p><p>Also, have you read my most recent ficlet, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28531791">Promised Land</a>?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Cabin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John squirms in his seat, releasing his grip on the wheel in an attempt to will away his nerves. A tense silence fills the car, rough and unrelenting. It tears at his chest as he watches David’s car corner one street, then another.</p><p>The normally dark streets are slightly more illuminated than usual, decorated with green and red fairy lights. It’s early December. Christmas is coming. Rosie’s first. He should be thinking about presents and Christmas trees, making plans for their first holidays together.</p><p>Instead, he rides around London following another man's car, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sherlock's face in case he’s in trouble.</p><p>God, he’d better be in trouble.</p><p>
  <em>Wait. What am I thinking?</em>
</p><p>He jumps in his seat, grabbing the burner phone Sherlock gave him.</p><p><em>Stupid, so stupid</em>, he thinks, pressing the speed dial button for the only number programmed into it. <em>Just call him.</em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Do you need to get that?”</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>David fixes his eyes on Sherlock's, keen and sharp as always. “The mobile.”</p><p>Sherlock reaches for his pocket, frowning at the name on the screen.</p><p>John.</p><p>Why John? Why now? They’ve agreed the burner should only be used in case of absolute emergencies. Last Sherlock checked, he was having a pint with Lestrade.</p><p>“No.” He clears his throat against the hint of discomfort percolating through him. There’s no reason for John to be in trouble, and he won’t take the call while in David’s hearing range. He can’t risk getting exposed right now.</p><p>Sherlock rejects the call, cursing at the indicator of the nearly empty battery. He’d left the bolthole without a charger; he didn’t expect this turn of events, after all.</p><p>He turns to David in the driver's seat, looking at his tall, proud figure. “Why am I here?”</p><p>“I don't know. You just got in my car,” he says with a boyish glint in his eyes. His smile is genuine, but Sherlock can see the nervousness in it. When Sherlock doesn’t reciprocate, David recalculates, walking back on his joke. “You called me. Said you had something to tell me.”</p><p>“I already relayed my message,” Sherlock says coolly</p><p>“What? That my life is in danger?” David asks sourly. “Care to elaborate?”</p><p>“I would if I could,” Sherlock says. “I’ll only reiterate my advice to avoid the rehearsal of your speech next week.”</p><p>“How do you know about the speech?”</p><p>Sherlock scoffs. "All in a day's work.”</p><p>“Right. Right,” David muffles distractedly. “What’s so dangerous about it?”</p><p>“I can’t tell you that right now; not before I have all the details.”</p><p>“Is Alison also in danger?” David asks, glancing his way with concern.</p><p>“No, I don’t believe that she is.”</p><p>“How can anyone possibly hurt me at an airbase?” David demands. “It’s one of the safest places in the country.”</p><p>Sherlock looks out the window with a sigh, lips tight.</p><p>Peter’s voice goes higher, angrier. “How can I keep myself safe when I don’t know what’s going on?”</p><p>“Just trust me,” Sherlock says with a low, familiar tone. “I’ve kept you safe so far, haven’t I?”</p><p>The familiar tone throws David off, his anger ebbing away. A moment after, David slumps, giving up on the matter. His voice is as low and as familiar when he turns to Sherlock again.</p><p>“How’ve you been?”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>“You don’t look fine,” David says.</p><p>Sherlock turns to look at him, his brow raised.</p><p>“No offence but you look like you could use a hamburger or two,” David says. “And a good shave.”</p><p>“Did you ask me to get in the car just to insult me?”</p><p>David pauses. “No, I... I asked because I’ve missed you.”</p><p>Sherlock flinches in surprise at the admission, sinking further into his seat.</p><p>David looks over at him again. “Is that alright?”</p><p>And there they are again. Those eyes—David’s eyes—sharp, all-seeing, assertive. As close as they’ve ever been since Frankfurt.</p><p>They were just as clear and confident during their entire time in Gaza together. David, although physically dishevelled and broken, stepped into the safehouse and looked straight into Sherlock’s soul from the first moment. It seemed odd at first, but he hadn’t given it much thought. He’d focussed on the task at hand: verifying his identity, getting David to talk and settle down for the night (and then another night, and another after that).</p><p>Sherlock was horribly, appallingly out of his element those first few days, expected to be the source of emotional and physical support.</p><p>Back then he had made the conscious decision to take it as a positive sign—that fierceness in David's eyes. That despite everything he’d gone through, David’s mind was clear and sharp, still functioning.</p><p>Now though, knowing everything he knows about him, it seems… predatory, somehow.</p><p>“Got any plans tonight?” David asks when he doesn’t receive an answer to his last question.</p><p>“Depends what you call ‘plans’.”</p><p>“How about a drink?”</p><p>“Not a big drinker.”</p><p>“Food, then. Somebody ought to feed you up,” David says, leaving Sherlock wondering what it is with men insisting on feeding him. “I know a place. You eat, I drink.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t. You still have to drive back home tonight.”</p><p>Another long pause as David stares ahead, eyes fixed on the road. “I’m taking a break. From home. From Alison. I’d really like a drink or two.”</p><p>Sherlock examines David from head to toe now, unsure how to respond without disclosing just how intimately informed he is about the man’s life.</p><p>“Fancy going out of town for a bit?” David asks. “I can have you back in London before midnight.”</p><p>Sherlock looks out the window in surprise, weighing his options.</p><p>Why not, really? He’d warned David and done all he could. He won’t be able to develop any leads regarding Aldridge tonight, and though David isn’t his main suspect anymore, he’s still not in the clear. There are still things Sherlock needs answers about, that just don’t make sense.</p><p>With his mind made up, Sherlock nods again, remembering John’s call from a couple of minutes ago. He’d text him back, but the battery is running low.</p><p><em>Nothing for it right now</em>, he thinks as David hits the accelerator.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>John throws the phone back on the passenger seat in frustration when the line becomes unavailable. He sits back and focuses on the road.</p><p>David’s car, traveling aimlessly so far, takes the A40 towards Shepherd’s Bush. Ten minutes later, John realizes they are leaving London behind altogether.</p><p>Ten minutes turn into twenty, and as the signs indicate Buckinghamshire and High Wycombe, David’s car takes an unexpected exit.</p><p>He watches David park outside a lonely Harvester car park. His hopes of catching up to Sherlock disappear as he watches him join David in the restaurant, and then shortly return carrying brown takeaway bags.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Here we are,” David announces, bags in hand, as he slams the door behind him.</p><p>Sherlock scans the area surrounding the car, ten minutes away from High Wycombe proper, based on signs they passed en route. Black Park Grove. National Trust. The access road that led them to this location is dotted with tourist cabins.</p><p>The night air is cold, much cooler than in London. The wind flows freely among the sparse trees. He spots a few distant lights from cabins nearby, and hears hints of traffic from the main road.</p><p>“What is this, exactly?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“It’s old school,” David says, pointing at the cabin he’d parked next to. “No heating, build your own fire—like that. My mother-in-law used to let the place out in the summer for some extra money, you know. Come on, let’s go inside. It’s freezing.”</p><p>The door opens with a yawning creak. Sherlock scans the room instinctively, ever the detective in a proverbial crime scene. There is a dying, recently-put-out ember of a fire crackling in the fireplace, spreading blessed hints of heat inside the room. The cabin is nothing more than a small room with a kitchenette, a dining table with two chairs, and a folding sofa near the window.</p><p>“Do you… live here?” Sherlock frowns. David’s possessions are scattered all over the room like he seemingly left the place abruptly. How is that possible? Last he checked, David’s GPS locator had placed him at his friend’s house, earlier today.</p><p>David shrugs with a half-smile, hands on hips. “Since this morning, yeah. It’s nothing much, but compared to where I spent the last nine years, it's a bloody Hilton.”</p><p>Sherlock cannot help but smile back at him, awkwardly stuffing his hands into his pockets.</p><p>
  <em>Can’t argue with that. </em>
</p><p>“Sit, sit.” David urges Sherlock as he unfolds one of the dining chairs for him.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>“Hungry?” David asks, pulling boxes of steaming food out of the bags.</p><p>Sherlock watches David set up dinner on the small table with an inscrutable, barely noticeable hum. When he finishes, David moves his chair this way and that, finally sitting down. The space is cramped, and their knees brush with the smallest movement. If Sherlock hadn’t spent two whole months with the man in a hideout just about this size, the whole thing would have felt positively, suffocatingly claustrophobic.</p><p>David smiles again, a warm, honest smile. “Bon appétit.”</p><p>Sherlock, his hands still deep in his pockets, watches David without a word. The man slurps his pasta with a vengeance, humming in enjoyment with every bite. He only notices Sherlock’s lack of movement a few bites in, as he moves to pour them both some wine into the two plastic cups he’d managed to scrounge somehow.</p><p>“Alright?” David asks, wiping sauce from under his lips.</p><p>“I don’t usually do this.”</p><p>“What? Eat?”</p><p>Sherlock looks anywhere but at the man in front of him, clearing his throat. “Stay in touch with my targets.”</p><p>“Your target?” David swallows, his eyes widening at the term.</p><p>“Yes. You were the target of that mission,” Sherlock says. “I was sent to find you and bring you back, and I did.”</p><p>"Is that all you see me as? A target? An operation?” David asks, his shoulders slumping.</p><p>Sherlock bites his lip with frustration, “A successful one.”</p><p>“Yes, very successful.” David nods, offering a plastic cup full of cheap, red wine. “But I’m just me now. And it’s just you and me here, so… relax. I promise I won’t bite.”</p><p>He takes the wine, downing it in one swallow. When he looks at David again, his eyes are wide and warm, searching again for reciprocated warmth in return.</p><p>“More?” David asks, holding up the bottle of wine.</p><p>Sherlock smiles crookedly, accepting the offer.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>John stares down at his hands in pained resignation.</p><p>Driving around London in your suspect’s car is one thing, one John could perhaps consider reasonable. This is Sherlock, after all. He rarely follows proper procedure or protocol. Perhaps he finally felt he could only get the information he needed if he spoke directly to the man himself.</p><p>Picking up dinner and then stepping into an isolated cabin up in High Wycombe… well.</p><p>That’s a whole other story, isn’t it?</p><p><em>I should go home, </em>he thinks as he sneaks another glance at the cabin from his seat in the car.</p><p>He <em>should</em> get home. Whatever... whatever's going on in the cabin, he's not invited. He knows this rationally, of course, but he also knows that he would raid it if he thought Sherlock was there under duress.</p><p>He isn’t, though.</p><p>As they entered the cabin earlier, David placed a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back, guiding him in. A small gesture, but intimate. Sherlock rarely allowed such a touch without scorn or an uncomfortable twitch, if anyone was daring enough to even attempt it.</p><p>John would know. It took him years to brave the prickly magnetic field that surrounds Sherlock. Each time John had managed it, it had meant so much to him; a small victory in the never-ending war with Sherlock’s defences.</p><p>And here’s this man…</p><p>There’s always someone, isn’t there? Every once in a long while, someone comes along and grabs Sherlock’s attention.</p><p>Moriarty.</p><p>Irene Adler.</p><p>Terrible people, who caused such destruction in their lives, yet they spoke to some twisted logic, some part of Sherlock that makes him tick.</p><p>Like a siren call, they call him, and he follows. And it always, always ends horribly.</p><p>David isn’t Moriarty and he’s certainly not a dominatrix, but John can’t help remembering his eyes that time, right before he kissed him. He shouldn’t underestimate Sherlock—he knows he shouldn’t—but Sherlock doesn’t always understand things, people, social situations. He either doesn’t read social cues properly, or he ignores them all together.</p><p>He will go home. He just needs to make sure Sherlock is alright. He opens the car door, hesitantly. A gust of cold air meets him, but he soldiers on.</p><p>John hurriedly circles the cabin. It has one window, thick drapes covering it from the inside. He crouches underneath, straining to catch any signs of trouble.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“And then...” David laughs, wiping away a tear, “Collins asks me for the tenner I owe him for that poker game we played the night before... you know.”</p><p>Sherlock stares into his empty plastic cup, avoiding David’s eyes.</p><p>He smiles again, the warmth in the cabin soothing his mind and body as he relaxes against the uncomfortable chair. If he closes his eyes and tries hard enough, he can imagine this night as one of those many years ago in Baker Street, when John and he were just getting to know each other.</p><p>Sherlock rarely listens to people telling half-baked stories about army mates, but he listened when John told them. They offered a glimpse into the man, into the mystery. A chance to be a part of his life in all the ways he never could be.</p><p>And so he sits, listening to David spinning yarn. Not because he enjoys it, no. Moments ago, as he wobbled on the rickety chair, it dawned on him that this was a bad idea.</p><p>There are a million questions he’d like to ask David. All of them equally important, begging to be asked. Alas, each of them relies on the extensive—and highly illegal—surveillance operation he’s been conducting on the man. He worries that under the influence of this terrible wine, rendering him roughly twenty percent less sharp than usual, he might end up jeopardizing his well-crafted cover.</p><p>“More wine?” David asks as a second bottle of wine materializes out of nowhere, ripping Sherlock away from his thoughts.</p><p>“It’s terrible.”</p><p>“That wasn’t a no,” David sing-songs as he pours the red liquid into Sherlock’s cup. The detective scoffs in return.</p><p>“This is a bad idea.”</p><p>“I think it’s brilliant,” David says with a grin. “You look ten years younger.”</p><p>“Do I?”</p><p>“You’re all flushed. It’s lovely,” David says in a low voice, reaching out to squeeze his knee.</p><p>Sherlock looks down at his knee, the sensation sobering. He shakes his head to get his thoughts in order as he prepares to speak. “What happened with Alison?”</p><p>David leans back, surprised. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“You said you were taking a break. Why?”</p><p>David shrugs.</p><p>“Where does she think you are?”</p><p>“She didn’t ask,” he grumbles. “And… I don’t know, but my gut instinct tells me that when your wife doesn’t care where you spend your nights, it usually means it’s over.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I just-” David huffs, angry. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s done, it’s over.”</p><p>Sherlock watches him with a measured side glance. “She was all you talked about in Gaza.”</p><p>“What else could I have talked about?” David mumbles in frustration. “My life with her was everything I knew. In my head, it was like time stood still back at home, do you know what I mean? But it didn’t, and it’s over.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh, I know.</em>
</p><p>He knows what it feels like to think the world will stand still while you are gone.</p><p>
  <em>What life? I’ve been away.</em>
</p><p>He knows what it’s like to return and feel the sting of pain when you discover that even though you ran away to preserve another man's marriage, he is still together with his wife, sharing a house, a life, a daughter.</p><p>He knows how it feels, and although he hates to sympathize, he cannot help himself. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“I’m not,” David says, drawing a raised eyebrow from Sherlock. “It’s time for a fresh start.”</p><p>“How does one do that?” he asks, the alcohol rendering him far too curious on the subject than he’d care to admit.</p><p>“I thought… I thought I might immigrate, maybe,” David wonders aloud. “One of the boys from our section is hiding somewhere in the Amazon. That sounds delightful.”</p><p>“Is that a good idea, do you think?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“You only just came back. It’s barely been a month,” Sherlock says. “I don’t think you’ve really, truly processed everything properly.”</p><p>“Maybe it’s best if I just don’t,” David says, contemplating Sherlock’s words. “Is it always like this for you?”</p><p>“Is what?”</p><p>“Coming back.”</p><p>Sherlock frowns.</p><p>“Isn’t this what you do for a living?” David asks. “You leave, save a life, come back?”</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>Of course. David isn’t talking to Sherlock Holmes right now. He’s talking to Peter Knight, the heroic intelligence agent.</p><p>
  <em>What would Peter say?</em>
</p><p>“Yes, I suppose that's a fair description.”</p><p>“Must be hard.”</p><p>Sherlock offers nothing more than a shrug in response, unable and unwilling to reveal more. He really should stir the conversation back to David, to his plans of starting over, maybe find a way to bring up Aldridge—</p><p>“God, I’ve never actually asked you, have I?” David says, crossing his legs.</p><p>“Asked me what?”</p><p>“Whether you... have someone.”</p><p>“Have…?”</p><p>David speaks hesitantly, softly. “Who waits for you at home when you come back?”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Sherlock watches his hands, swallowing loudly.</p><p>“What, no one?”</p><p>He looks up at David, lips curled in a sour, bitter smile.</p><p>“How is that possible?” David asks.</p><p><em>Where do I even begin? </em>“People don’t generally respond well to me.”</p><p>David blinks for a beat, taking the information in. “Well then, people are idiots.”</p><p>“I prefer it like that,” he lies. “I dislike attachments. Expectations.”</p><p>“Sounds lonely.”</p><p>“Loneliness is a choice,” Sherlock says, raising his chin with pride.</p><p>David watches him closely, waiting to hear what he has to say. Whatever he sees causes him to scoff. “Bullshit. I’ve spent the last nine years alone, Peter. As lonely as a man can get. It’s never the right choice.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>Who waits for you at home when you come back?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No one.</em>
</p><p>John has to physically stop himself from scoffing at the sheer incredulity of the thought that those words just came out of Sherlock’s mouth.</p><p>
  <em>No one.</em>
</p><p>"Come with me, Peter." David’s words float through the air, sucking all the oxygen from John's lungs.</p><p>
  <em>Jesus.</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>David drags his chair closer to Sherlock, grabbing his knee and squeezing it again. “We can be on an airplane by lunch tomorrow.”</p><p>“What—”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter where. It’s not like you have something holding you back here—”</p><p>“You’re serious.”</p><p>“Listen to me, just.. listen.” David says. “I’ve been thinking about you so much since Gaza. I- I wanted to say something that day after the homecoming ceremony, but they just took me to some room with Al and I never saw you again.”</p><p>“David, this is...” Sherlock murmurs, lost for words.</p><p>“You don’t have to decide right now,” David says, dropping to his knees in front of Sherlock, cupping his face. “But just… think about it. Don’t tell me Gaza meant nothing to you.”</p><p>And suddenly David is close, so close, and Sherlock’s mind swims- drowns - with the onslaught of David's familiar scent as it fills his nostrils, his lungs. It was only ever just the two of them in Gaza for so long, never knowing if and when they’ll be discovered or rescued from one minute to the next. The electricity would go out for hours on end in the city, and they had to survive the warm, endless nights in pitch darkness. It was all they could do to not lose their minds.</p><p>Sherlock was evidently, painfully out of his depth, then. Mycroft’s words kept haunting him, as he’d watch David pacing restlessly around the room like a caged lion; <em>‘Another wounded soldier to heal. Maybe this time you might actually succeed.’ </em>
</p><p>David had no psychosomatic limps that needed to be fixed, no taste for danger to satisfy. All of Sherlock's tried and tested methods didn't apply there. And so some nights, not many, they’d give in to the other’s fumbling hands. Sherlock was a different man in Gaza. The safehouse existed on another plane, in a different universe. It didn't change the fact that Sherlock was utterly, painfully heartbroken; there, in the darkness, they took what they needed.</p><p>Then they left, and it was over.</p><p>Or so Sherlock had thought.</p><p>“I’m just saying,” David says, quietly. “I didn’t feel lonely in Gaza. Did you?”</p><p>Sherlock closes his eyes, hoping he can regain some control over his body. Of course he was lonely. That’s how he found himself in Gaza to begin with. Truth is, since he came back from his first exile, since watching John starting a new life, loneliness has ruled his life, its weight heavier than ever before.</p><p>“David, we...” He jumps when David’s finger comes incredibly close to his swelling cock, swallowing the lump in his throat. “We agreed that what happened in Gaza was… Wrong… it was wrong. That we’re… putting it behind us.”</p><p>“I don’t remember agreeing to that,” David whispers, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s. “What was so wrong about it?”</p><p>“You were… emotionally compromised.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“I was supposed to protect you,” Sherlock croaks. “Ensure your wellbeing.”</p><p>“And you did. You were brilliant.”</p><p>“It was small and... claustrophobic…” Sherlock fights to keep his train of thought as David’s tongue finds his carotid. “And you were having nightmares—”</p><p>“So were you—”</p><p>“And… there was a lot of <em>tension</em> that needed to be relieved.”</p><p>“I remember. That was brilliant too.” David drags his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, finally rendering him speechless. He licks his way down Sherlock's jaw, tongue circling his skin in a tortuorous motion. Sherlock’s hands move to David’s waist and drag him closer, giving in to his body’s demand to rut against another’s.</p><p>“Do you want me to stop?” David purrs in his ear, sliding his hand to cup him, massaging him through the fabric of his trousers.</p><p>“No,” Sherlock begs, pushing into David’s hand. “No. Please.”</p><p>“Careful,” David chuckles, moving his hand to the zipper of Sherlock’s trousers.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Dust particles drift in slow motion in front of John's eyes, the rest of the world swallowed up in the sound of his heartbeats, loud as a drum line.</p><p>There are muffled moans coming through the window; zippers opening, clothes cast on the floor. He can’t hear them anymore, now that his brain is tuning out his worst nightmare, playing out on a folding sofa in a small cabin in High Wycombe.</p><p>He should move. He should get up from the floor and drive. It may be the only way to preserve his dignity, his sanity, but he can’t. Not even when reality creeps in.</p><p>“Relax,” David whispers, his voice thick as honey. John’s eyes close as he’s hit by another wave of the aching pain of betrayal. “There you go. Gorgeous.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The first thing John notices when he opens his eyes to the grey morning sky is that his back is shot.</p><p>His neck is, too. The gun is digging into his side, the metal frozen against his body.</p><p>He’d fallen asleep on the frozen ground once—</p><p><em>Shit, </em>he thinks as the memories attack his belligerent brain.</p><p>He had fallen asleep once <em>they</em> had. <em>Took a while, too</em>, he thinks bitterly. There was... pillow talk, which he wasn't able to hear very clearly. David awoke loudly twice from nightmares, but went back to sleep after that.</p><p>He looks around, disoriented, though one thing becomes crystal clear: he’d been awoken by the sounds from inside the cabin. Sherlock and David had woken up, and in the bright light of the new day, John is thoroughly exposed.</p><p>Taking the chance to escape detection, he hunches and runs for his car, listening carefully to the sounds from within the cabin. The car is already running when his hands search for his phone automatically, registering its absence. He tries his pockets again, then the car seats, but the phone isn’t there. It's then he notices it in the corner of his eye—on the ground under the same window he had just left behind.</p><p>He curses silently, considering his next move. He can't just leave the phone there. He needs the GPS to find his way back home, and what if Mary calls and Sherlock and David find it?</p><p>As quietly as possible, he sneaks back to the cabin, careful not to make a sound. Sherlock and David are wide awake, one of them wandering around the cabin.</p><p>“Alright?” David asks.</p><p>“A bit hungover, I’m afraid,” Sherlock croaks, his voice dry and reserved.</p><p>“Do you need anything? I have an extra toothbrush.”</p><p>Sherlock clears his throat. "How about tea?"</p><p>“That’s an idea,” David says. “Try the cupboard.”</p><p>Sherlock hums as he moves from cupboard to cupboard, opening and closing them.</p><p>“So, er,” David stammers. “Have you given any thought to what we talked about last night?”</p><p>“Could you be more specific?”</p><p>“Going away,” David says. “The Amazon. Or a lonely island. New York even, if you fancy that.”</p><p>“I— I’m not much for considering relocation before my morning tea.”</p><p>David chuckles. “Fair enough.”</p><p>“Found a kettle. No tea, though.”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess this place hasn’t been used in a long time,” David says, while John hears soft footsteps. “Look at my bags. Maybe I threw some in there.”</p><p>Sherlock crosses the room, coming dangerously close to the window. “Nothing.”</p><p>“Well, if you’re up for it maybe you could get some wood for the fire, and I’ll see if any of the neighbours are in,” David suggests. “Worst case scenario I’ll drive out and buy some.”</p><p>Sherlock mumbles, “Not Typhoo, please.”</p><p>“What?” David asks.</p><p>“More of a Twinings man myself,” Sherlock mumbles distractedly as he moves away from the window. “Where are those logs?”</p><p>There’s a silence from David, one John feels in his sternum, but isn’t sure why.</p><p>“Outside, to your right. Wait,” David says, “how do you know what tea I drink?”</p><p>John's brow furrows in confusion at the sudden turn of conversation.</p><p>“What?” Sherlock asks again, this time from just outside the cabin door.</p><p>“You just said, ‘not Typhoo’.”</p><p>“Did I?” Sherlock asks with a grunt. John can recognize a deflection in Sherlock's voice.</p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something’s wrong.</em>
</p><p>There footsteps again as David steps out of the cabin. “You think it’s what I drink. I don’t though, actually, because it’s so bloody awful,” David says, his voice tense. “But it’s all Al and I used to be able to afford when we were starting out, so it’s become a bit of a joke between the two of us.”</p><p>“David, can you stop<em> talking</em> about tea and just get some?”</p><p>“No, I want to know why you said that.”</p><p>“Why does it matter?”</p><p>“That wasn’t just a chance guess,” David says. “There’s no way you would know that unless—“</p><p>“Unless what?”</p><p>“Have you been watching me?” David’s voice becomes cold.</p><p>Nervous now, John moves quietly to peer carefully around the corner. Sherlock stands with his back against the cabin wall, his two hands full of logs.</p><p>"Don’t be ridiculous—"</p><p>"You're a spy, aren't you?" David cuts him off. "That’s how you know, isn’t it? That's how you knew I wasn't living at home when we spoke last night."</p><p>“David-”</p><p>“Don’t lie to me, Peter!” David grabs Sherlock by the lapelles, shoving him against the wall. A log falls out of Sherlock's hand, rolling in John’s direction.</p><p>“Down!” John pulls his gun and takes the corner, aiming at David. “Put him down!”</p><p>“John!”</p><p>"Ian?" David asks, still holding onto Sherlock. His eyes flit between Sherlock and John, confused. "John? Who's John?"</p><p>"Step away. Move." John orders David, taking a slow step towards the two men and turns to Sherlock. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demands angrily.</p><p>“Saving your arse.” John frowns at Sherlock, perplexed by his angry response, his gun still pointed at David.</p><p>John finally has the time and presence of mind to see Sherlock clearly; he’s disheveled, his eyes bloodshot from dehydration. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in days, and - he notices in surprise - he’s wearing his Belstaff.</p><p>Sherlock straightens his clothes, huffing. "David, this is my colleague.”</p><p>“Your co—” David stammers. “So you have been spying on me!”</p><p>“I’ve been conducting some unofficial reconnaissance work, yes.”</p><p>David looks between John and Sherlock, wide-eyed. “On what grounds?”</p><p>Sherlock bites his tongue anxiously, a nervous tick John knows all too well. It looks as if he's trying to buy some time, but David doesn't fall for that.</p><p>“Tell me, damnit!” he shouts, moving in Sherlock’s direction again. John takes another quick step, coming between the two men.</p><p>Sherlock sighs, daring to roll his eyes. “On the day we left Gaza, an asset reached out and told me that a British soldier had been turned by Abu Nazir.”</p><p>“OK.” David frowns in confusion. “And you believed him?”</p><p>“He was my most reliable asset in Gaza,” Sherlock says. “There was no reason not to trust him.”</p><p>“That could have been anyone. Any British soldier anywhere in the world.”</p><p>“No, not according to my asset,” Sherlock says. “He helped me find you in the first place. He had no reason to lie.”</p><p>David huffs. "I can think of a million reasons for somebody in that region to lie. Money—"</p><p>“That’s true, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was murdered just hours after approaching me,” Sherlock says. “That usually means your asset was onto something. Something worth killing for.”</p><p>David gawps at Sherlock, eyes narrowing. “Are you telling me that MI6 think that I’m working for Abu Nazir?”</p><p>Sherlock tilts his head, his eyes narrowing in return with the same intensity. “No, David. <em>I</em> think you’re working for Abu Nazir.”</p><p>“You think I’m a terrorist?” David asks, shocked.</p><p>“I never said terrorist,” Sherlock corrects him, as he had corrected John a few days ago. “I said turned.”</p><p>“And everyone at MI6 missed that important bit of intelligence except for you?”</p><p>“No one at MI6 dared to even consider the idea,” Sherlock says coldly. “A failure of imagination, not intelligence.”</p><p>“If that were true, if any of that were true, wouldn’t I kill you right now?”</p><p>“Not if you’re playing the long game,” Sherlock says in defiance.</p><p>“And what exactly are you basing all of this on, if I may ask?” David says, his voice like venom. “Besides your fertile imagination, of course.”</p><p>“Well, your various versions of the truth have more holes in them than a sieve, for starters.”</p><p>“Like what?” David huffs. When Sherlock doesn’t answer, David holds up his hands as if to signal a truce. “Fine,” he sits down at the small table on the porch of the cabin. “Ask me anything.”</p><p>“What?” Sherlock asks, exchanging a confused glance with John.</p><p>"You have a gun," David says. "Hold it over my fucking head and ask me anything. I'll show you how wrong you are."</p><p>John frowns, seeking Sherlock’s eyes. He reads Sherlock’s own surprise at the suggestion, can see him considering all possible outcomes and risks.</p><p>“Alright,” Sherlock says and sits across from David at the table, signaling John to join them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have some author's note <a href="https://therealsaintscully.tumblr.com/post/642485316580769792/new-chapter-of-turned-is-up">here on tumblr</a>, just some personal thoughts in case you're interested. I'll just mention this here: this was, by far, the most difficult chapter to write for this story to date. I knew it was coming all along - in fact, it’s the one scenario the entire fic was based on in my head. Still, it turned out to be so hard. I’ve been editing and reworking this chapter so much that I can’t stand to look at it anymore.</p><p>I already started outlining Part II of Turned, which will continue exactly where part I ends. Part II will be called 'You, Me and the Next War'.  </p><p>Waiting for your lovely comments, as always 💚</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Nothing Important Happened Today</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>tw for a very short, non-descriptive mention of sexual abuse</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Well?” David’s disdain is evident when he speaks next, waking Sherlock from his thoughts. He blinks, looking between the two men seated on either side of the table.</p><p>The invitation to ask David anything, unexpected and unforeseen, had thrown a mental wrench into his whirring mind. He’s still recovering from the sensation of the rug being pulled from under his feet when David had pushed him against the wall not two minutes ago.</p><p>John looks up at him with wary expectation. <em>You alright? </em></p><p>“All right.” He nods. <em>Let’s start easy.</em> “Why do you have two phones?”</p><p>David leers incredulously. “What?”</p><p>“Two phones. An iPhone Alison bought for you and a Nokia you bought at ASDA and only used once. Why?”</p><p>The smile on David’s face dissolves as he realizes the extent of Sherlock’s knowledge of the inner workings of his life. It takes him only a fraction of a second to recover, however.</p><p>“Because I hate that stupid iPhone.”</p><p>Sherlock’s only response is a suspicious arched eyebrow.</p><p>“Call me an idiot, but I... I miss the old phones. That’s all there was back then and those bloody ‘smartphones’ are a menace. All that sliding, and the… the keyboard. Who can even type like that?” David says grudgingly. “I thought I could use a backup in case I got stuck.”</p><p>The answer hangs in the air, innocent enough. Sherlock feels the heat of John’s gaze on his profile, waiting anxiously for him to dazzle them both with his ingenuity.</p><p>“Alright. What’s in your attic?”</p><p>“My attic?” David scoffs, looking at John as if saying ‘<em>get a load of this guy</em>’.</p><p>“Your attic,” Sherlock repeats coolly.</p><p>“I dunno, attic stuff. Why?”</p><p>Sherlock considers David for a beat before speaking. “You go up there at least four times a day, if not more, even when Alison is out and you have the whole house to yourself. You’ve been isolating in the confines of your home, but for some reason your home is not enough. You lock yourself in the attic, religiously.”</p><p>If David is at all riled by realizing just how much Sherlock has invaded his privacy, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he sits up straighter in his chair, looking away before he finally speaks.</p><p>“To pray,” he sighs, but before Sherlock has a chance to say anything, David’s finger twitches unnaturally. It’s the same twitch Sherlock pointed out on video to Mycroft—the one that made him send Mycroft to his useless cryptographer friend.</p><p>“What is that?” Sherlock asks, pointing at David’s finger. “This tremor in your hand?”</p><p>“It’s nothing,” David says, moving his hand away.</p><p>“No, it’s not nothing.”</p><p>“It’s a habit. A nervous tic,” David says. “For when I don't have my prayer beads.”</p><p>Sherlock’s back straightens unconsciously. “Your Catholic prayer beads?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“You’re Muslim,” Sherlock says.</p><p>David sniffs. “Yes.”</p><p>“You were still a practicing Catholic on your last R&amp;R,” Sherlock says, remembering a photograph of David with a priest, from a local newspaper stuffed somewhere among his various ‘David’ dossiers.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“So sometime during your time away, kept in the hands of fundamentalist Islamists, you converted to Islam.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“How do you explain that?”</p><p>David takes a big breath as he considers his words. “You’re not a religious man, are you, Peter?”</p><p>“No,” Sherlock says dryly.</p><p>“Then you wouldn’t understand.”</p><p>“Try me.”</p><p>David hunches forward on the table, moving fractionally closer to him. Sherlock feels John’s instinctive movement as a result, becoming alert.</p><p>“When you’re... a religious man, and you live in despair for nine years, you might turn to whatever other religion there is to bring you comfort. And I needed comfort,” he says, looking straight into Sherlock’s own eyes accusingly. “Nobody knew I was there. <em>Nobody</em> knew I was still alive. For all I knew, no one was ever coming to get me. So I did what I could do. We all do things under duress that are hard to explain sometimes, don’t we?”</p><p>Sherlock hears the accusation loud and clear; he can’t help his body’s squirm inside his great coat.</p><p>“I converted, for the sake of my sanity, not that it’s anyone's business.” David speaks again. “That’s not illegal in this country. Not yet.”</p><p>“No.” Sherlock shifts forward in his chair, moving closer to David. “No, it’s not.” <em>Focus, </em>he thinks, scanning his face up close. “Alright. Nadi.”</p><p>David's eyes narrow fractionally. “What about him?”</p><p>Nadi wasn’t important. Nothing more than a piece in Sherlock’s proverbial evidence wall mosaic, until he slashed his veins, that is. That made him stand out, all of a sudden, like a sore thumb; it left Sherlock with no choice but to question the information David had fed him while he was interrogating Nadi himself.</p><p>“Did you slip him a razor blade in the safehouse?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>“They already asked me that.” David looks resolutely between Sherlock and John. “I took a polygraph test.”</p><p>“Yes, I know. I was there,” Sherlock says. “A polygraph test which you passed with flying colors, even though I know for sure you lied, at least as far as one very specific question goes.”</p><p>
  <em>Have you ever been unfaithful to your wife?</em>
</p><p>David’s lips part fractionally with understanding. Sherlock has to hand it to him; he’s good. He maintains an impressive façade, indeed. “So let me ask you again. Did you slip Nadi a razor blade?”</p><p>“Why would I do that?”</p><p>“Answer the question,” John says tightly, throwing his weight into the mix.</p><p>“Why don’t you ask Nadi who passed him the bloody thing?”</p><p>“Because he’s dead,” Sherlock says. David’s eyes grow wide with surprise.</p><p>“No, I didn’t,” he says finally. “But I wish I had, and I hope he bled slowly, and died in a lot of pain.”</p><p>
  <em>He certainly did.</em>
</p><p>“You said that he tortured you,” Sherlock says. “That he was cruel to you.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“That he’d stuck a screwdriver in your thigh and twisted it for days on end.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>David scoffs. “Excuse me?”</p><p>“There are no scars on either of your thighs that match that description. A screwdriver twisted into the muscle, into the bone, would have left a mark. But there isn’t one,” Sherlock says. “They certainly weren’t there last night.”</p><p>At his side, John moves uncomfortably in his chair.</p><p>“What are you saying, exactly?” David says, indignant. “That I’m lying about being tortured?”</p><p>“I think you might be lying about being tortured in Gaza,” Sherlock clarifies. “Your scars are too old.”</p><p>David shakes his head with incredulity. “You've got to be kidding me.”</p><p>“I’m really not,” Sherlock says flatly.</p><p>David wets his lips, pressing them together. “I must have misremembered.”</p><p>“I very much doubt that,” Sherlock says sotto voce. “It’s not exactly something one misremembers. I could tell you about each of my scars, at length. I can describe the face of the perpetrator, the color of their shirts, the number of freckles on their cheeks.”</p><p>David sniffs again. “My timelines… the timelines tend to get blurred in my head sometimes. The things they did. I’m not always sure what’s true and what isn’t.”</p><p>“That’s really neither here nor there, is it?” John asks, sounding positively unconvinced.</p><p>“But I wasn’t lying,” David insists. “Nadi was my guard, and he was cruel. The lot of them were.”</p><p>He doesn’t doubt that; not their cruelty. Not the inhuman pain they’d put him through. The screwdriver may be a lie, or perhaps the fact that anything was inflicted by Nadi was, but it’s a small part of a much bigger puzzle still left to unveil.</p><p>He decides to let it go for now.</p><p>“What really happened on the night you and Jonathan Palmer were captured?” Sherlock asks.</p><p>David’s self-assured composure crumples right in front of his eyes. <em>And there it is, </em>he thinks. “Why was Jonathan upset that night?” he pushes. “His sister told you he called her that day, upset. What about?”</p><p>David considers the question, looking away into the distance in the direction of the grove. Finally, he turns to look between Sherlock and John again, his next words measured. “We were in hot water over... something,” he says. Sherlock’s eyes narrow unsympathetically. “We were caught in a... compromising situation.”</p><p>“By Aldridge,” Sherlock says quickly.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“What sort of a compromising situation?” John asks.</p><p>“We were...” David swallows. “During observation duty.”</p><p>Sherlock nods minutely. “Once?”</p><p>“Once... or twice,” David says, and Sherlock knows well enough to be sure that they were only <em>caught</em> once or twice.</p><p>“And Aldridge threatened to sanction you,” Sherlock says, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.</p><p>John huffs. “Too right.”</p><p>“You were on observation duty together on the night of the raid,” Sherlock says. “Even though it’s frowned upon to have two snipers on observation together—even though two snipers who were caught in a compromising position before. How did you manage that?”</p><p>“I don’t know. I don’t!” he insists when Sherlock snorts. “Jonathan was… he was a wheeler and dealer. He must have said something to someone, one of the lads; it wasn’t the first time he’d done it. I was already on duty. He ended up joining me.”</p><p>Sherlock is quiet for a beat. He scans David’s face, considers his next question carefully. It’s a wild guess, but he’d bet his life he’s not wrong. “Abu Nazir had a modus operandi. Blackmailing with photographs, videos, proof of the enemy’s weakness,” he says, looking at John. “It’s a tactic he picked up from Al-Qaeda, from Hezbollah. Abu Nazir’s organization had… <em>has</em> intelligence gathering capabilities that would put to shame some countries’ intelligence agencies, considering. What did he have on<em> you</em>?” he asks David, who bites his upper lip wordlessly.</p><p>“They were observing the compound, weren’t they? Spying.” Sherlock continues, deducing. “Knew all the ins and outs, the schedules, the comings and goings. They realized that if you and Jonathan were on duty together the compound was compromised. It was their best chance to try and raid it.”</p><p>David looks away, barely-there tears forming in the corners of his eyes.</p><p>“And it was, wasn’t it?” Sherlock nods. “Compromised that night. You two were weeks away from the end of your tour. You had... <em>plans, </em>didn’t you,<em> to</em> start a new life together. Couldn’t keep your hands off each other.”</p><p>Sherlock watches David staring into the distance. “But then all hell broke loose.”</p><p>“Jesus,” John says quietly, barely above a whisper.</p><p>John’s hushed curse heralds a long, deafening silence that settles over the table like a heavy blanket. The lack of conversation suddenly draws Sherlock’s attention to his surroundings for the first time this morning; birds chirp happily, welcoming the new day. Traffic has become increasingly busy on the main road—the same road he’d listened to last night.</p><p>It’s all very idyllic, really, and so stunningly incongruous to the horrible truth David had just laid at their feet.</p><p>“Did Jonathan convert, too?” Sherlock asks when he can’t stand the silence any longer.</p><p>“Is that why they killed him and not you?”</p><p>David shakes his head wordlessly, unconsciously, like a nodding dog on a car’s dashboard.</p><p>“David,” Sherlock says, determined to pull the man out of his own mind. “Why did they kill him and not you?”</p><p>“It doesn't matter,” David says, his voice cracking.</p><p>“I'll decide that.”</p><p>“You don't want to know.”</p><p>“I need to know<em> everything</em>,” Sherlock says coldly. “How come you’re alive and Jonathan isn’t?”</p><p>“Peter<em>—</em>”</p><p>“David<em>—</em>”</p><p>“Please<em>—” </em>David begs.</p><p>“I need to know<em>—”</em></p><p>“Because I killed him, alright?” David roars, hurtling his words like a grenade. “I killed him!”</p><p>John goes tense; Sherlock’s eyes sharpen even further, if that is at all possible.</p><p>“I beat him with my own hands on the floor of my cell, and...” David says through gritted teeth.</p><p>“Why?” Sherlock pushes. “Why would you do that?”</p><p>“Because he begged me to,” David mumbles under his breath, looking up. “He begged me to. He couldn’t stand it anymore.”</p><p>“Stand what?”</p><p>“The… torture. The pain,” David chokes. “He broke, and I didn’t.”</p><p>“What did he tell them?” John asks.</p><p>“Everything,” David says. “Everything, about me… about himself. Our section. The information they managed to get out of him... They used it against us. They had someone back in England doing their dirty work, I think. He gave them names and they… they’d come back days later with photographs taken on the street, of Al, of his family. They threatened to use the stuff they had on us in newspapers at home,” David says. “To send them to my wife. To our church. To Jonathan’s parents. Make sure that we'd never have a home to come back to, that our country would turn against us if any of that was known. It was Jonathan’s fault and he… he couldn’t stand it.”</p><p>The dark spell of the initial confession breaks, and David turns to look between Sherlock and John.</p><p>“They were crueler with him. I had a wife, he didn’t. It made him an easy target. One of the guards...” David bites his top lip painfully, his eyes unseeing. “He would… abuse him. Sexually. In the cell next to mine, every night. Made sure I heard all of it. The guard, he… he couldn’t touch him. He was too religious to actually… but he… used other things, and…”</p><p>“Why would they let you kill him, though?” Sherlock mumbles, more to himself than anyone else. “A living POW is priceless.”</p><p>John clears his throat loudly, searching for Sherlock’s eyes.</p><p>
  <em>Not Good.</em>
</p><p><em>Nothing about this is good</em>, he wants to tell John. There's a cruel, ugly truth lying at the bottom of David’s ocean of lies, and he’s determined to get to the bottom of it.</p><p>“Why would they let you kill him?” Sherlock asks again, more determined this time. “On the face of it, if you were valuable enough to keep alive, then so was he.”</p><p>David looks back, tired and angry. “Because they were cruel.”</p><p>“And what you told his sister was true?” he asks. “You buried him?”</p><p>“Yes,” David nods, dazed.</p><p>“This was in Afghanistan?”</p><p>“Yes,” David says. “I dug the grave myself.”</p><p>“Do you know where?” Sherlock asks, but he knows the answer to that. David shakes his head ruefully, his eyes closing with pain.</p><p>Sherlock brings his hands to his mouth, the tip of his nails just barely touching his lips.</p><p><em>I don’t believe you</em>, he wants to say, but he knows letting that thought out would snap David like a rubber band.</p><p>David takes a big breath; his body language is a jumbled, unreadable mystery. It always has been. “Happy?”</p><p>Sherlock can’t help the hint of a bitter curl to his lip at the question.<em> Well, you certainly have an answer for everything. </em>“Rarely.” He lets the venom of his response land on the table, for all to hear. “How does Aldridge fit into all of this?”</p><p>David frowns.</p><p>“John said you were white as a sheet when you first saw him,” Sherlock says. “You thought he was dead, didn’t you?”</p><p>The admission is wordless. It’s in the way David’s eyes cloud with pain.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“They showed me photos of him dead,” David says.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” David protests impatiently.</p><p>“To buy your allegiance?” Sherlock pushes. “Your trust?”</p><p>David shakes his head with disbelief; he lets out a short-winded laugh as his eyes darken with anger. “You still don’t believe me, do you?”</p><p>Sherlock allows a small, foreboding smile.</p><p>“After everything I just told you?” David says. “The stuff I told you could send me to prison for an entire lifetime!”</p><p>Yes.</p><p>That’s true, it could. He knows that, but he also knows that David is smart—smarter than most. David would have calculated the risk, just like Sherlock did; the only witnesses to everything he’d told them were Sherlock and John, and if Sherlock tried to use it against him it would turn into a classic case of one’s word against another’s.</p><p>But Sherlock isn’t buying any of it. Never in his life would he consider using it as evidence against the man. It’s a fabricated story, so outrageous it almost seems to be designed so that no one will be able to prove it. Because there are no traces, are there? Somebody’s made sure of that.</p><p>Jonathan is dead. Nadi is dead. Who’s left? Aldridge? He’s a drunk, damaged man who lost all credibility years ago. He’s also trapped in a terrible catch twenty-two; if Aldridge ever lets on that he allowed David and Jonathan go on observation duty together that night, he’ll go straight down with David.</p><p>It's a plan that could only have hatched in the mind of a world-class strategist such as Abu Nazir; unfailingly mutually-destructive.</p><p>Sherlock sighs.</p><p>
  <em>It’s brilliant.</em>
</p><p>David takes a big breath as he stands up from the table. “I think we’re done here.”</p><p>“No, we’re not finished,” Sherlock says urgently, following him into the cabin. David packs his belongings, pushing Sherlock out of the way as he leaves the cabin.</p><p>“Oh, we’re done,” David says, rushing in the direction of his car. “If you want to arrest me, get a warrant and come to my house.”</p><p>“David.” Sherlock strides hurriedly to catch up with him. “David! Whatever you do, don’t give that speech next week.”</p><p>“Why should I listen to you?” David laughs.</p><p>Sherlock finally catches up to the man. He grabs David by his arm, looking deep into the man’s eyes. “I think Aldridge might try to harm you.”</p><p>David eyes glitter as he shakes his hand out of Sherlock’s grip, his nostrils flaring. “I’m not worried about him.”</p><p>Sherlock blinks as David slams the door to the car, sending him one last threatening glare as he pulls away. “You stay away from me, do you hear me?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Lovely weather today for it, isn’t it, darling?”</p><p>The man hums distractedly, immersed in the front page of <em>Al Jazeera</em> with a deep, troubled frown.</p><p>“Anything good?” she asks, throwing a side glance at the newspaper herself. She puts a cup of tea down at his elbow, squeezing his shoulder.</p><p>“Is it ever?” he grumbles, aware of the housekeeper creeping onto the veranda. He doesn’t have a chance to oblige their well-rehearsed Friday morning conversation.</p><p>“A phone call for you, sir.”</p><p>“Yes, thank you.” He takes the phone, never raising his eyes from the newspaper. “Yes? Hello?”</p><p>“Hello?” A hesitant voice comes from the other side. “Is this… Sir Edwin?”</p><p>“Speaking.”</p><p>“Hello sir,” the voice says. “This is Corporal David Stewart speaking.”</p><p>The name drags him away from the letters on paper in front of him; the sharp reaction garners him a scowl from his wife.</p><p>“I’m… terribly sorry to disturb you, sir, but you gave me your card some time ago,” the Corporal speaks loudly over the sound of traffic. He can only imagine the man must be speaking while driving. “You said I should call you if I ever needed your help.”</p><p>“Why, yes. Of course,” Edwin says. “What is this about, Corporal?”</p><p>“I’m afraid… I’m being harassed by someone I believe to be employed by your organization, or so he claims,” Stewart says. “I have a reason to believe this person has had me under illegal surveillance since my return. He appears to be harbouring some… ridiculous ideas about me.”</p><p>“What?” Edwin asks. “Who?”</p><p>“I’m talking about the man who lived at the Gaza safehouse with me, sir,” David says. He stands abruptly, knocking the cup of tea off the table. “He told me his name was Peter Knight, but I’m not sure that’s his real name.”</p><p>Edwin puts his hand on the receiver; “<em>Get the car, now!</em>” he whispers to his wife, or the housekeeper, or anyone paying attention, really. It does the trick.</p><p>“You see, I’m a patriot, just like you, sir,” David continues as Edwin rushes for his coat. “And it’s in this patriotic spirit that I’m offering you the opportunity to handle this matter internally before I speak to the press about it.”</p><p>
  <em>Bloody hell.</em>
</p><p>“Yes, of course,” Edwin says urgently. “I’ll take care of it, Corporal, immediately.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“John?” Sherlock calls over his shoulder as he watches David’s car disappearing. “John, your phone! I have to call Wiggins.”</p><p>John watches with bated breath as the man takes a few quick strides back towards the cabin, scanning it distractedly. When Sherlock finally notices John’s silence, he wobbles and turns on his heels with a swish of his coat. “John!”</p><p>“Sit down,” John grits through his teeth.</p><p>“I need your phone, John, before David can—” Sherlock scowls.</p><p>“I don’t bloody care, Sherlock,” John says, his wariness doing very little to hide his simmering anger. “Sit. Down. Now.”</p><p>Sherlock huffs in frustration, wound up like a coiled spring.</p><p>“I said sit down, Sherlock.” John’s hands ball angrily into fists on either side of his body as Sherlock takes another step towards him. “It’s my turn to get some bloody answers.”</p><p>“What—”</p><p>John sharply holds a hand up, cutting him off. “Seriously, we’re not gonna talk about this?”</p><p>Sherlock’s head tilts in confusion. “Talk about what?”</p><p>“I mean, how does it work?”</p><p>“How does what work?”</p><p>“This. You. Here,” John says, speech dwindling down to monosyllables. “You and him.”</p><p>Sherlock swallows, taken aback. “I was just doing my job.”</p><p>John’s eyes darken. “Your job?”</p><p>“Aldridge is dangerous. I received some new evidence about him.”</p><p>John huffs, shaking his head.</p><p>“I thought I’d do the right thing and warn David,” Sherlock says. “You were the one who told me it’s best just to talk to him. Why are you so—”</p><p>“<em>That—</em>” John gestures pointedly at the cabin, his voice like glass, “was not what I meant.”</p><p>Sherlock’s back straightes in surprise. His face does something indescribable.</p><p>“I <em>meant,</em> have a coffee with him, or… or drag him to Mycroft’s underground lair and interrogate him there,” John says. “Not shag up against the wall in a bloody cabin, like some...”</p><p>
  <em>Some, what?</em>
</p><p>John has the presence of mind to stop before he says something he might regret.</p><p>“Christ, Sherlock! The last thing you do is sleep with a suspect!” John cries out, scanning the man’s face when something occurs to him. “This isn’t the first time it’s happened, is it? How long has this been going on?”</p><p>A grumble comes from Sherlock’s direction.</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>Sherlock looks up, determined. “Not since Gaza.”</p><p>John breathes heavily for a long moment, considering the man in front of him. “I thought you didn't <em>do</em> that,” he says, choking on his own restrained words. “That sort of thing.”</p><p>“I don’t.”</p><p>“Your performance last night begs to differ.”</p><p>“That wasn’t me, John,” Sherlock says. “That was Peter.”</p><p>John cracks another bitter smile.</p><p>
  <em>What does that even mean?</em>
</p><p>“I’m going to need you to explain this to me, Sherlock, because from my side of things this looks… bad. This obsession...” John says, his gaze in search of Sherlock’s eyes. “The surveillance. Sending me off on these idiotic assignments, tracking his every move like he’s—”</p><p>The realization hits him like a smack to the face; it’s so simple, so obvious all he can do is laugh, really. “Oh,” he huffs. “Oh, Sherlock.”</p><p>Sherlock stares up at him, his brows furrowed.</p><p>“You <em>bloody</em> moron.” John scratches his eyebrow, unaware how much it reflects his unease. “You’re not trying to implicate him at all, are you? You’re trying to get him off.”</p><p>“<em>What?</em>”</p><p>“You… were sent on this mission,” he says, finally managing a second of eye contact with the other man. “You... <em>met someone</em> under the most miserable of circumstances, and now you’re trying to find a way to—”</p><p>“Don’t be absurd—”</p><p>He shakes his head in frustration, trying to find the words to describe Sherlock’s clueless attempts at… what? Love? “To be with him? Is that what all this is about?”</p><p>Sherlock dares an exasperated sigh. “John, as I think I have explained to you many times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people…”</p><p>“Don’t, Sherlock, don’t…” He stops him mid-sentence, hating the words already. It makes him sad; about Sherlock’s overreaching denial, his need to make everything so bloody <em>complicated</em>. “I’m not stupid. He said he wants to leave the country with you.”</p><p>“He’s bluffing, John,” Sherlock says. “Every word coming out of his mouth, always, is a calculated lie. I’d have thought you’ve figured that out by now.”</p><p><em>Of course</em>, John thinks. <em>Of course Sherlock would tell himself that</em>.</p><p>What wouldn’t a person tell himself in exchange for a clear conscience?</p><p>“So what, then?” John says, remembering a ring and an elevator and ‘chemical defects’. “What did you think would happen? That you could… be with him, and then just ignore him once you’re back in London—”</p><p>“Oh, for Christ’s sake, John. Of course you’ll be getting this all wrong—”</p><p>“You can’t treat people like that, Sherlock—”</p><p>“John—”</p><p>“<em>People</em> have <em>feelings—</em>”</p><p>“Oh, don’t—”</p><p>“Why would you possibly think you can just toss his feelings around like that—”</p><p>“<em>Because I was never supposed to come back!</em>” Sherlock growls, breathing hard as soon as the words leave his mouth; he takes another beat before looking away. “It was never…”</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>And then everything, the whole of it, suddenly makes sense.</p><p>Sherlock, asking Mycroft to be sent away. Avoiding John for weeks once he came back, insisting that he shouldn’t join him on the case.</p><p>Sherlock left, and he had no intentions to ever come back.</p><p>“Right,” John grinds out, all tension leaving his body in a terrible flux. “See, the thing is, Sherlock, that only makes all of this… worse. Do you not… do you not see that?”</p><p>He’s not entirely sure who he’s speaking for; David or himself. Both, he supposes. Sherlock’s normally proud form slumps; he lowers his eyes wordlessly.</p><p>“None of this was supposed to happen,” Sherlock says.</p><p>John shakes his head, scowling at the floor at the feel of his constricting heart. His belly fills with a strange, unholy brew of pity and bitter envy.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, Sherlock.</em>
</p><p>‘<em>What did you think he was doing when he was gone, that first time? What do you think he’s done this past year?’ </em>Mary asked him a lifetime ago, like a damn prophet.</p><p><em>That’s exactly the point, isn’t it</em>, he thinks desperately. He wishes he could say Sherlock Holmes isn’t that man; that he wouldn’t leave John behind willingly, wouldn’t run around the world doing the government’s ugly business, wouldn’t use another person’s heart like that.</p><p>But he is. Sherlock has done all of that, and more, and it makes John sick.</p><p>“John,” Sherlock says coldly, slowly. “We need to get back to the bolthole, as soon as possible. I need to see where he's going next. He might be heading to a new handler, or—”</p><p>They jump at the sound of a ringing phone; it takes John a second to realize it’s his. Reluctantly, he removes it from his pocket, checking the caller ID. “It’s Mycroft,” he sighs, not for the first time scandalized by the elder Holmes’ horrendous timing.</p><p>“Answer him,” Sherlock says impatiently.</p><p>“We’re not done here, Sherlock, not by a mile,” he says grudgingly as he answers the call, placing the phone at his ear. “Mycroft?”</p><p>“Dr. Watson, do you happen to know my brother’s whereabouts?”</p><p>John looks up at Sherlock from under his lashes, clearing his throat. “Yes, I do.”</p><p>“Is he up in High Wycombe with you?”</p><p>John sighs. “Yes.”</p><p>“Put me on speaker, please, John.”</p><p>“This isn’t a good time, Myc—”</p><p>“Now, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft drolls, irritated. “Before it’s too late for either of you. Speaker, please.”</p><p>John removes the phone from his ear, switching to speaker phone with a worried frown.</p><p>“Mycroft,” Sherlock says, “Stewart just left for—”</p><p>“Captain Aldridge is dead,” Mycroft says, deadpan.</p><p>“What?!” Sherlock and John ask simultaneously.</p><p>“His body was found in a landfill near Loudwater by city operators not an hour ago.”</p><p>“Loudwater?” John looks up distractedly. “That was the nearest exit on the way here—”</p><p>“Is the body still in the landfill?” Sherlock grabs John’s phone, rushing away from the cabin. “John! Your Car!”</p><p>“Listen to me, Sherlock, and do exactly as I say,” Mycroft says with a warning. “Wherever you are, do not leave any evidence you’ve been there. The two of you are to get into a car and drive back to London as fast as humanly possible.”</p><p>“Mycroft—”</p><p>“Do not make any stops on the way. Don’t let anyone see you. I won’t be able to protect you otherwise,” Mycroft continues. “Am I clear, Dr. Watson?”</p><p>“Yes,” John yells at the phone, pulling the fob from his pocket.</p><p>
  <em>Bloody hell, what’s going on?</em>
</p><p>“Mycroft, if the body’s still in the landfill—”</p><p>“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, get in the car!” John grabs him, shoving him into the passenger’s seat.</p><p>“I’ll see you at the bolthole in an hour,” Mycroft says, hanging up abruptly.</p><p>They slam their respective doors simultaneously, pitching the car into heavy, awkward silence.</p><p>Sherlock looks at him, then looks at the rearview mirror. John sees his eyes fixating on the bags he’d packed and dumped on the back seat last night, hoping to…</p><p>Well.</p><p>That’s a moot point now.</p><p>“John?” Sherlock turns in his seat, looking at the bags. He says nothing else as their eyes meet in the mirror.</p><p>“Just… leave it,” John says, tightening his hold on the steering wheel.</p><p>When John still doesn’t move to start the engine, Sherlock squirms in his chair. “We really ought to…”</p><p>“Just… ” John scrubs his hand over his face, barely above a whisper. He looks straight ahead, unable to stand the sight of Sherlock right now. “How could you say that, Sherlock?”</p><p>“Say what, John?”</p><p>“How could you tell him that no one’s waiting for you at home when you come back?”</p><p>Sherlock hesitates for a long, terrible moment. “Because it’s true.”</p><p>John shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”</p><p>“I’ve been told.”</p><p>“Do you have the slightest idea...” he growls, starting slow but losing all grip as he goes, “of the <em>hell</em> my life becomes every time you leave?”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes darken, his fingers twisting around the door handle. He looks away again, refusing to meet John’s eyes once he speaks. “Imagine what it feels like to come back.”</p><p>The accusation lands like an anvil on John’s head, but there's no time to process it. They both jump at an incoming text message on John’s phone before either can say anything else.</p><p>
  <em> <strong>Quickly. -MH</strong> </em>
</p><p>His hands sticky with sweat and anger on the steering wheel, John doesn’t move despite the urgency of the text.</p><p>“Give me the keys, John,” Sherlock urges him. “I’ll drive.”</p><p>John shoots him a devastating glare, turning the key in the ignition. “Not a chance, you’re a bloody mess and… hungover.”</p><p>Sherlock sits back a sigh.</p><p>“I can smell him on you,” John mumbles.</p><p>He doesn’t dare to try and catch Sherlock’s response to that as he presses the accelerator.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sherlock crushes into the bolthole like a hurricane, rushing towards the screens. He pounds the keyboard to wake the computer up, until the video feed materializes there.</p><p>Gathering every bit of strength and concentration he can muster given… well, everything, he ignores the sound of John dragging his feet behind him, together with the looming silence that darkened their awkward drive back.</p><p>
  <em>Focus!</em>
</p><p>Fiddling around with the surveillance software, he browses through the most recently recorded materials from David’s house.</p><p>“Come on, come one, come on,” he mumbles impatiently as the video rewinds, his heart nearly bursting with surprise when David’s figure suddenly appears next to Alison, moving in reverse throughout the house.</p><p>Finally finding what he’s been looking for, he stops the video the moment David, bags in his hands, opens the front door. Walking silently into the kitchen he finds Alison is loading dishes into the washer, giving him the coldest of shoulders.</p><p>“Hey,” David says.</p><p>Alison doesn’t acknowledge him.</p><p>“I’m sorry I disappeared like that,” David says. “They called me back to Intel HQ, had some more questions—” “You don't have to explain where you were,” she says tightly. “It’s none of my business anymore.”</p><p>“Al,” David says, taking another careful step forward. “You have every right to be mad at me. I know I've been impossible, and I know I can't just vanish for a few days like that…”</p><p>“You’ve been gone for nine years, what’s a couple more days?”</p><p>“What's that supposed to mean?” David asks. “You don't even care? Because I do.”</p><p>“David, I know things have been difficult, and… I- I know you don’t like the man you’ve become. I can’t blame you.” Alison takes a big breath. “But… I can't keep paying for that.”</p><p>“You don't have to.” David eyes her for a moment. “It's not your fault, none of it is. That's what I'm trying to tell you. I don't want everything to fall apart.”</p><p>Alison looks up at him, eyes wide and glistening.</p><p>“I don’t want any of this, Al. I don’t want a new start,” David says. “I want to try and make this work.”</p><p>“David—”</p><p>“I’ll do all of it, anything you ask. The support group, the couples therapy, the reporters,” David says, squeezing her elbow gently. “If you’ll have me, that is. Give me another chance. I want to try… with you.”</p><p>Alison’s lips tighten, her pain barely contained.</p><p>“There’s only you, love,” David says, sweeping her gently into her arms. They stand for a while, whispering to each other, the words unintelligible to the microphones.</p><p>Sherlock hears a tentative sigh behind him, and feels John creep closer. He shuts his eyes in hopes of pushing off the waves of pitying, misplaced sympathy practically emanating from John. </p><p>“...Sherlock?”</p><p>He <em>hates</em> John right now.</p><p>He hates <em>all of them</em>.</p><p>John tries again, resting a palm on Sherlock’s elbow. “Sher—”</p><p>“Don’t!” he snarls, swatting John’s hands away.</p><p>John wilts next to him, the cruel rejection darkening his worried features. Sherlock only gets a chance to watch David begin to move around the house when the sounds of his intolerable brother’s arrival fills the bolthole.</p><p>Mycroft stands, surveying his surroundings from under his nose. “It appears we have a situation, brother dear.”</p><p>“Understatement,” Sherlock grumbles, finally with enough presence of mind to address this new development. A situation, indeed, one that seemed to take place under all their noses.</p><p>David, after spending God knows how many hours with no trace, based only minutes away from where Aldrige was found dead early this morning, had cryptically rejected Sherlock’s warning not two hours ago ‘I’m not worried about him’, he’d said of Aldridge as he drove away.</p><p>David, had listed as many reasons as one person could have to harm Aldridge. A motive, an opportunity and alibi, all wrapped up in one night up at a cabin.</p><p>Sherlock has the creeping, suffocating sense that he’d been played. Again.</p><p>“We need to get this under control, Sherlock, so let’s not dawdle,” Mycroft demands. “Why did you contact Corporal Stweart yesterday?”</p><p>“I wanted to warn him,” Sherlock says, repeating the story about the evidence Lestrade handed him yesterday.</p><p>“Against protocol,” Mycroft says. “While going off the grid, and without informing me.”</p><p>Sherlock sighs. Protocol? Everything he and Mycroft have been doing since Frankfurt defied every possible protocol. “I didn’t go off the grid. My phone’s battery died.”</p><p>Mycroft hums. “And why did you end up climbing into his car?”</p><p>“He suggested,” Sherlock says petulantly. He’s had enough of the third degree.</p><p>“And then what happened?”</p><p>“We talked,” Sherlock says coolly. But John, ever loyal John, can’t help a huff. Mycroft looks between the two of them like an eagle honing in on its prey.</p><p>“They did a bit more than that,” John mumbles. It’s almost inaudible enough for Mycroft to miss, but, alas, Mycroft’s humorless smile disappears, turning into a sour scowl.</p><p>“I see,” he says with a sigh. His eyes scan the room, and he settles on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been afraid of this.”</p><p>Sherlock rolls his eyes at his brother’s frankly disturbing theatrics. “Afraid of what?”</p><p>“Sherlock,” Mycroft says sharply. “If there’s anything you’d like to confess, now would be the time.”</p><p>“What on earth are you talking about?”</p><p>“I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you came back, brother,” Mycroft says. “You haven’t been yourself, not for a while—”</p><p>“Mycroft—”</p><p>“I come here to learn that you spent the night with the man you so diligently convinced me was a suspect, while all this time you’ve been… entangled with him.”</p><p>Sherlock blows out a short, surprised breath.</p><p>“And now the man you claim to be a threat to your… <em>involvement</em>, turns up dead not fifteen minutes from where you spent last night, with your phone turned off and no proof of your whereabouts,” Mycroft says. “What is it that we say about coincidences, Sherlock?”</p><p>“Wait, what?” John protests. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft. I was there all night. Sherlock never left that cabin.”</p><p>“Dr. Watson, I believe I’ve told you before that on occasion it takes Sherlock Holmes to fool me. Regrettably, I think this is one of those occasions,” Mycroft scowls. “Tell me, Sherlock, what really happened to your asset in Gaza, hm? The one who died mysteriously shortly after breaking the news to you about a turned British warrior—”</p><p>“Soldier—” Sherlock corrects him.</p><p>“<em>Warrior</em>, were his exact words, brother mine, you said so yourself,” Mycroft says. “Not ‘soldier’, not ‘POW’. ‘Warrior’. A very particular choice of word, wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>Sherlock becomes painfully aware of the tingling wave of dread climbing up the vertebra in his back, slowly but surely.</p><p>John shuffles uncomfortably somewhere in his general vicinity.</p><p>Mycroft stands, moving closer and closer to Sherlock as he speaks. “You’ve been religiously refusing to shave since you came back, and yet you arrived fresh and clean on the day of Yasser Khoury’s interrogation, of all days.”</p><p><em>Ah</em>, Sherlock’s brain finally pipes up uselessly. <em>I see what’s happening here, brother mine.</em></p><p>
  <em>How very clever.</em>
</p><p>“An incident for which we all sat down for a polygraph test, except for you,” Mycroft says pointedly. “You excused yourself more times than I can remember.”</p><p>“Mycroft, come on—” John tries but Mycroft forges on.</p><p>“DI Lestrade sent me the photos he shared with you yesterday,” Mycroft continues. “I needed a minute before I realized it might not actually be you. The physical similarity between you and the Captain is striking, wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>Sherlock can only blink back.</p><p>“So tell me, brother. What exactly happened in Gaza, hm?” Mycroft asks. “Who was <em>really</em> turned in that safehouse?”</p><p>“How <em>dare</em> you—” Wide-eyed, Sherlock starts his scathing accusation when the door to the bolthole is flung open. The three of them jump in surprise at the interruption, but no one is more surprised than Mycroft.</p><p>“Sir—”</p><p>“Good lord.” Sir Edwin enters the room unceremoniously. He surveys it with keen, sharp eyes, getting the lay of the land quickly. He turns to look at the group behind him, signalling at the evidence wall. “Mrs. Norbury, collect all this as evidence please.”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” the mousy woman says as she hovers around the room.</p><p>Two dour-looking security guards move up to Sherlock, body searching him. He grunts at them though it does nothing to push them back.</p><p>“What’s going on here?” John protests. When they find nothing on Sherlock they turn to John, but Edwin stops them.</p><p>“No need to search Dr. Watson, gentlemen,” he says casually. “His gun was confiscated some time ago.”</p><p>John huffs as the guards back off, but not far enough; they plant themselves sternly next to them like salt pillars.</p><p>“I’ve received a call this morning from Corporal Stewart,” Edwin says. “He’s placed a misconduct complaint with regards to you, Mr. Holmes.”</p><p>Sherlock doesn’t dignify that with a response.</p><p>“I was hoping it was an exaggeration, but regrettably, it appears it is not.” Edwin scans the computer screens. “Mycroft, I don’t think I’m wrong to assume you have some hand in this.”</p><p>Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. “I do, sir.”</p><p>“You’re off the case,” Edwin says, eyeing Sherlock. “Both of you. You are to cut off all ties with the Corporal and cease any surveillance immediately.”</p><p>Mrs. Norbury squirrels back to stand behind Edwin. “I think we have everything, sir.”</p><p>“Have I made myself quite clear?” Edwin demands, eyeing all three of them.</p><p>The question is met with a pregnant silence.</p><p>Shaken to his core, Sherlock looks across the room at Mycroft with a foolish hope of some delivrance. When he can no longer hold his gaze he turns his head away from John—from the lot of them—holding back a breathy curse.</p><p>“Am I clear, Mr. Holmes?” Edwin hurls loudly at him again, and Sherlock can’t take it anymore. He hurries out of the room, as though chased by arrows of betrayal.</p><p>The last thing he registers is John’s distraught ‘<em>Sherlock!</em>’ behind him.</p><p>He doesn’t see Mycroft solemnly shaking his head at the doctor, signalling him to let the detective be; doesn’t hear John grumbling ‘<em>Christ, Mycroft!</em>’ in choked frustration over the sound of his own thundering heartbeats.</p><p>He pushes the door of the underground car park violently and heads out into the cold, grey day.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The next chapter will be a short epilogue of sorts, adding a final piece to the puzzle before we move on to 'Part II : You, Me and the Next War'. Part II will pick up days after the events of this chapter.<br/>-</p><p>For the sake of argument and my laziness, imagine there existed a printed version of Al Jazeera in 2015.</p><p>-</p><p>Your comments are all I need 😊</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. An Epilogue (of sorts)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sherlock left the bolthole, distraught and confused. This is what happened on the other side of London, some nine hours later.</p><p>To be continued.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>AN IDIOT'S APOLOGY FROM YOURS TRULY</b><br/>It occurred to me, thanks to one gentle, kind commenter, that some of you were left confused over the 'Johnlock Endgame' tag I added to the story. I'm an idiot (or perhaps, a bit more kindly - a new, slightly inexperienced writer). The tag and my plans are indeed Johnlock endgame, except that in my head it was always clear that  would take place in Part II. Obviously it wasn't as clear to you, the readers.<br/>If I disappointed anyone, I'm truly sorry. The Johnlock Endgame tag relates to the SERIES as a whole, and not this particular part of it. I hope you won't give up on this world I created and stick with it.</p><p>Thanks for understanding,<br/>SaintScully</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Sea Life London Aquarium</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>9 hours later</strong>
</p><p>“<em>Ladies and gentlemen, the Aquarium will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please make your way to the exit. Thank you.</em>”</p><p>Mary makes her way down the blue-lit corridors, her eyes tracking the marine life through the transparent glass of the underground tunnels. The alien quality of the place is overpowering; the sounds of her footsteps bouncing off the empty corridors.</p><p>She walks towards the nook that an unassuming usher had directed her to. Once she reaches a dead end—an obscure looking observation room—she doubles back; with her senses jumping to full alert, her head tilts in hesitant confusion.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>An elderly woman sits on a bench with her back turned to her. The fluorescent jellyfish swimming above her make the woman seem small, almost fragile.</p><p>“Over here, dear.”</p><p>“I’m… sorry, I’m in the wrong place.” Mary moves to turn on her heels, her brow furrowed.</p><p>“No, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, Mrs. Watson,” the woman says. Mary's pleasant, fake smile fades at the sound of her name. “You know, this was always my favourite spot for agents to meet. We’re just like them, aren’t we, dear? Ghostly, living in the shadows.”</p><p>Mary’s eyes narrow and she scrutinizes the woman under her sharp glare. “Who the hell are you?”</p><p>“My name is Vivian Norbury,” the woman says. “Lady Smallwood’s deputy.”</p><p>“Lady Smallwood doesn’t have a deputy.”</p><p>“Deputy, assistant, aide-de-camp. Whatever you choose to call it is fine by me.” The woman turns from her place on the bench with a small smile.</p><p>“I don’t talk to secretaries,” Mary says.</p><p>“That’s rather rich, coming from a secretary,” the woman says with far too much satisfaction. “Don’t underestimate secretaries. They know <em>everything</em>. In fact, I know you quite well.”</p><p>Mary has to fight any visible proof of the rush of adrenaline flooding her body. “Is that so?”</p><p>“Oh yes, Mrs. Watson,” The woman cuckles. “I’m intimately familiar with you, with your career.”</p><p>Mary’s eyes sharpen dangerously.</p><p>“You see, I’ve always appreciated your professionalism. AGRA was always very reliable. Never put a foot wrong.” The woman stands up, hoisting her black purse on her arm. “That's why I was so surprised to learn that you chose to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>“I received a call at my office, late last evening. I say <em>my</em> office; it’s Lady Smallwood’s office, not that she’s ever there,” Mrs. Norbury says with a huff. “Corporal Stewart's wife told me that a stranger approached her and gave her that number, saying that they have proof that Sherlock Holmes has had their house under surveillance for weeks.”</p><p>Mary swallows, tilting her chin up proudly.</p><p>"Luckily, I've always been quick on my feet. I told her crazy people always come out of the woodwork when things like that happen, and she has nothing to worry about. Best not to mention it to anyone, least of all her husband," Mrs. Norbury says."She was so rattled she actually bought it. But there I was, thinking ‘who could possibly be resourceful enough to cotton on to something like that’? Then it struck me. Of course. Who else could it be?”</p><p>“Listen—”</p><p>“See, the Mary Morstan I knew wouldn’t do that. She would know better than to interfere with somebody else’s covert operation,” Mrs. Norbury says. “Or rather, Gabrielle Ashdown did. Or Anna Dobb. Or Danielle Wren.”</p><p>Mary gasps, her breathing shallow. “Who <em>are</em> you?”</p><p>“I told you,” the woman says sweetly. “Just a secretary, but a rather industrious one. I’ve asked you here to advise you to keep off, dear, and mind your own business.”</p><p>“Why would I do that?” Mary asks.</p><p>“Professional courtesy?”</p><p>Mary chuckles bitterly.</p><p>“What’s in it for you, all this nasty business with the Corporal?” Mrs. Norbury asks. “You finally have everything you wanted, don’t you? A family, a home, a nice life?”</p><p>Mary’s lips twist in silent anger.</p><p>“Oh, <em>I see</em>.” Mrs. Norbury cracks a poisonous smile. “You're bored, aren’t you?”</p><p>“You don’t know m—”</p><p>“Your kind always gets bored,” the woman says with a dismissive wave. “A shame to do it on the back of a small child, though, but really, I’m not here to judge.“</p><p>Mary stands taller, unyielding to the veiled threat. She knows when she’s being offered something or another. “What do you want?”</p><p>“Here’s the thing,”—the woman’s eyes twinkle—“I’ve been working on Corporal Stewart for so long. Years and years this has been going on. I bought a nice cottage in Cornwall on the back of it, too.”</p><p>“Is there a point you’re getting to?”</p><p>Mrs. Norbury’s face turns to cold, hard stone. “Keep out of it.”</p><p>“Or what?”</p><p>“I prefer carrots over sticks, myself,” Mrs Norbury says. “Keep out, and I’ll give you something quite valuable in return.”</p><p>“What could you possibly offer me?” Mary asks sourly.</p><p>“A way out, a fresh start,” Mrs. Norbury says. “Everything you ever wanted and thought was lost.”</p><p>Mary scoffs nervously, shaking her head. Mrs. Norbury’s hand goes to her purse, pulling out a set of photographs. She hands them over to Mary, who doesn’t move, suspicious and careful.</p><p>“Go on now,” she urges, shaking the photos. “Look at them.”</p><p>Mary strides across the room, her eyes never leaving the older woman’s face. She grabs the photographs, browsing through, doubt written across her face.</p><p>“Oh my—” Mary starts, choking on her words. She looks up at the other woman with a start. “That’s—”</p><p>“Ajay,” Mrs. Norbury nods.</p><p>“These are... new!” Mary says in disbelief.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“So he’s—”</p><p>“Alive. Yes, dear.” Mrs Norbury nods contentedly. “He’s alive, and he’s desperate to find you. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a phone call away.”</p><p>Mary looks up at the woman, shocked.</p><p>“No one will have to know. You can make up the story as you'd like; ‘Poor, brave Mary Watson. Her past came back to haunt her’.” Mrs. Norbury tuts again. “Although, what do you imagine he’ll say when he arrives in London and finds that you ended up marrying somebody else?”</p><p>“Oh, God,” Mary whispers. She rifles through the pictures, realizing there are other photos, too. Not only Ajay’s, but scans of documents, proof of her old identities and whereabouts. “Where did you get these?”</p><p>“Who do you think gave Magnussen all these documents?” Mrs. Norbury asks with a raised brow. “Oh, you missed your chance that night in his office, didn’t you? So close. Luckily Sherlock Holmes had finished the job for you. He’s so very useful at times, isn’t he?”</p><p>Not for the first time, Mary wishes she had a gun with her.</p><p>“Oh, don’t get me wrong, dear,” Mrs. Norbury says. “Those Holmes brothers are a menace, but here’s a little something I’ve learnt from experience, and it’s proven itself yet again just this morning. When it comes to those two, it’s best not to waste your energy. They think they’re so clever, but given enough time, enough temptation, they’ll always end up their own worst enemy.”</p><p>Mary stands breathless, her eyes closing briefly in distress.</p><p>“And then all <em>you</em> have to do is sit back and watch it happen.” Mrs. Norbury smiles, a wide, satisfied smile.</p><p>When Mary doesn’t say anything in return, Mrs. Norbury looks down at her with what one might mistake as motherly affection.</p><p>“So what do you say, petal?” she asks. “Would you like to hear about that deal?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Now that Part I is over, I'd like to once again thank my wonderful betas for being a part of this (admittedly) long, convoluted journey. I've taken on the task of writing a complicated story about a conflict I was never a part of, soldiers from countries I'm not a citizen of, in a language that certainly isn't my native tongue. They're the ones who make this story readable and presentable despite the 'artistic freedom' I present them with when it comes to verbs, tenses, idioms and English grammar in general :)</p><p>I always found it strange that Moftiss had Mary call herself a secretary in T6T. She's a nurse, not a secretary, but I went along with it here for the sake of the story.</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
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        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28812786">Turned</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kettykika78/pseuds/kettykika78">kettykika78</a>
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